


A Rose Behind Glass

by ThePolitestBumblebee



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), M/M, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Romance, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:40:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 25,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23533207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePolitestBumblebee/pseuds/ThePolitestBumblebee
Summary: The world didn't end. Aziraphale and Crowley are tentatively beginning to sort out this thing between them. It's unfortunate an unusual stranger with an eye for the occult is here to put a wrench in the works.
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 31





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! This is my first fanfic on AO3 and I'm very excited to finally be posting here after working on this for a while.  
> A huge thank you to my dear friend B, who edited it for me.  
> Warnings for Chapter: Nothing intense, some angst, anxiety and light swearing.  
> Enjoy!
> 
> Edit 17/4/20: Fixed the formatting! Still getting used to AO3, I used to be a fanfic.net type of gal. What can I say, we all grow!

The world didn't end.

The sun still rises in the East. Sets in the West. Days passing without catastrophe, just the regular troubles of particularly pushy customers and the urge for a specific food that cannot be found nearby.

It's almost surreal. A few weeks ago they had been on the precipice of The Disaster to End All Disasters-about ready to throw in the towel on everything they had ever known-but now time continues to march forward, as if blind to the consequences it nearly suffered at the hands of an eleven-year-old's Hell induced temper.

Aziraphale can't help but feel like the rug could still be yanked out from under his feet, his precarious balance on safety causing him to topple over.  
He tries to stay rooted to the ground instead. Grounding himself is easy if he focuses on the present.

He reads, lets words flow over him and immerse him in fantastical worlds that hold their own problems. He's a willing passenger in journeys of prose and human imagination.  
He shelves and re-shelves, fusses when the bookshop has seemed to form strong opinions on where certain books should be kept. Toes the line on how much dusting he does, enough to keep the place liveable but not so much that customers are encouraged to stay.  
He eats, delighting tastebuds with intriguing flavours. Hard to focus on other things when a brilliant sweetness is exploding over your tongue.

He ignores, too. Ignores when the dusk gives way to nightfall, the moon's silent watchfulness signalling another day done, a day he thought he'd never have. Aziraphale is rather talented at ignoring. If there were competitions for such things, he'd likely be perfectly pickled to find himself in first place, scraping ahead of even high-schoolers procrastinating their school assignments, in denial of the racing clock.

Quite a feat.

Crowley seems to have taken on the opposite approach to life after the world's-not-end.

While Aziraphale is continuing as normal, lest he look at the bigger picture, Crowley's existentialism knows the bounds and chooses to ignore them.  
He's constantly remarking on things that wouldn't have been around any longer if they hadn't succeeded, always realising things he hasn't done before, wouldn't have had the chance to.

Not always vocally. Actions _do_ speak louder than words.

There's only a certain amount of times Crowley can bring Aziraphale to a restaurant brand new to them or some wildly touristy adventure before he's forced to join Crowley's existentialism.

The world's second chance at existence seems to have kicked the demon into realising the big picture of things, and by default, that means kicking Aziraphale too.  
He's not quite comfortable with that. Thousands of years of ignoring will get you into the habit something fierce, especially when that habit was something that protected you from the biggest threat to your existence.

Despite the urge to fall back on old habits, recognising the events that conspired do, in fact, have benefits.

It's hard to ignore the changes in their relationship.  
Aziraphale doesn't want to.

Because, despite their differences, Aziraphale and Crowley spend more time together than they do apart.

They've ventured into new territory together, physical gestures of affection gradually becoming more commonplace between them.  
A playful nudge when the other teases, a hand on the shoulder to bring attention, the space between their bodies slowly vanishing when they sit. And, on one memorable occasion, linking their pinky fingers together like shy but touch-starved children.

Navigating this new step has been a challenge. They still look behind them when their knees bump together, still retreat when their hands accidentally brush by each other while walking. Slow change, but change nonetheless.

Everything is new and gentle and a little frightened, but blooming like a flower after winter's recession. Petals unfurling into something beautiful.

The freedom granted to them by the wool they pulled over Heaven and Hell's multitude of eyes has turned out to be a great condition for young flowers to grow.  
Well...this flower is old, 6000 years old, to be precise, but the events of a few weeks ago have seemed to provide it with all the sunlight and water it could ever need to flourish.

It should be 6000 years 'young' with how new everything feels.

Perhaps Crowley is right to be eager to experience new things, his green thumb (green tongue, really) is a perfect touch to cultivate the tentative flower and encourage it to grow.  
Maybe pinky-linking will turn to hand-caressing, or, if they're bold, hand-holding. It could transition into something they've stopped themselves from dreaming about, for it was too unrealistic to even consider before.

Really, they're more scared than those high-schoolers ten minutes before their assignment is due.

They have the chance now though, to be scared. They have the time, the freedom to allow themselves to be frightened. To go slow, to recover at a pace that they've never been able to before. Tension gone, they can wash away the pretenses of what their relationship had always ever been and start again.

...

Crowley is due for another drop in today, as far as Aziraphale is aware (Crowley likes to think of himself as unpredictable, which has the reverse effect of making him more predictable). 

Aziraphale is lucky he had the foresight to request they stay in for the day.

Today is a day he'd really rather just be hidden away in his shop a merry symphony on the gramophone, nose buried in a book and the world just passing him by.  
He's eager to see Crowley, to have his witty company and the comfort of his presence, but he's glad he won't be expected to leave the bookshop.

It had been a textbook 'bad day,' one where everything seems to go wrong. As if God herself seemed intent on throwing a little personal touch into everything, like the seasoning on an already burnt meal.  
And Aziraphale, who has been taking _everything_ slow and careful, is decidedly not ready to coast from unfortunate event to unfortunate event. At least, not without the help of his demon companion.

Soon after the sun's morning arrival, people too had arrived outside the bookshop. Milling about and peering into windows. Unfortunately, this was a normal occurrence for Aziraphale and required his attention. Eventually.

He was unwilling to deal with potential customers without at least a _little bit_ of breakfast, so he had left the shop.

A grand mistake it had been.

Miffed at the attention paid to his beloved collection of books, Aziraphale had completely missed the crack in the sidewalk with his eyes, leading to his foot completely _not_ missing it. He didn't fall, thankfully, but the toe of his shoe was scuffed.

Dismayed at the damage to his shoe he had tutted and sighed, frowning when he realised there was no one around who could fix it, except him. A task for later, then.

Continuing on to breakfast, he had chosen a café he and Crowley have frequented many a time. Although, those times, Aziraphale remembered, had considerably fewer customers.

Humanity is a fascinating display of traits, a uniqueness Aziraphale admires, nothing Heaven and Hell are and everything worth being.

That is, until they've taken his regular spot by the window, chatting at volumes a howler monkey would find offensive and letting loose their children to play like rabid dogs.  
Aziraphale had just about spilt his tea when a pair of kids, ducking and weaving through the cafe like hooligans, bumped into his table on the way past, making both him and cutlery jump. And he _did_ spill his tea when the baby from the table behind him let out a piercing scream that rattled his ethereal form nearly more than his earthly corporation.

Coat-sleeve stained with tea, ears ringing and his hope for humanity dwindling, Aziraphale had hurried back to the shop to hide away.

Only to be greeted by several eager prospective customers.

He can't wait for Crowley to get here, for them to get drunk in the middle of the day and for Aziraphale to ignore the world exists. Just for a while.  
  
Aziraphale can accept change and growth, _just._..not today. He needs to get plastered.

But first, he has to deal with several customers, eager to get their hands on his books.

...

Not long after the bookshop's opening do many potential customers suddenly remember other engagements they have arranged for the day, and the fact that unless they leave immediately they're going to be late.

As many people leave, three enter. Two appear to be a couple, all entangled arms and starry eyes. The third is a simple man, breaking away from behind the couple to study a bookshelf of interest.

Aziraphale focuses on the couple, readying himself as the pair giggle amongst themselves, choosing a bookshelf to examine in between their shared heart-eyes.  
He stands next to his desk, reluctantly placing his winged mug back onto a (tartan-print, of course) coaster. The marshmallow inside the mug sadly bobs beneath the surface of his hot chocolate at his departure.

The couple begin to pull books from the shelves, opening them and reading various pages aloud amongst lovesick laughing and affectionate nudges.

It's hard to look at.  
It's a display of the reason he and Crowley fought so hard for the world, defying everything they've ever known so that humans could exist, as humans do. So there could be a world with young love-drunk couples for a long time to come. In that way, it's gratifying, an affirmation that they did the right thing in the end.

It's also a reminder of everything they've never been able to have for themselves, and, in that way, the feelings the display procures are conflicting.

Complex emotions aside, touching his beloved collection is a big offence. How disrespectful humanity could be.  
Aziraphale quickly strolls over, steeling himself for an act of politeness pulled from the depths of his soul.

"Excuse me, dears, those books are for display only," He instructs, smile tight on his face.

The couple shares a look, communicating between them with a bug-eyed stare. They shift to face him, sheepishly closing the books.

"Oh, sorry. We're just looking," The blond of the couple offers, flushing as they place their book back. The brunette partner laughs nervously.

"If I'm not mistaken, looking is traditionally done with the eyes. Not the hands," Aziraphale hums, eyeing the books in the brunette's hands. The brunette hurriedly puts one of the books back, wedging it awkwardly between the books already there.

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow, hoping his face belies his thinning patience.

"I-it's just, this seems like such a cool book and I haven't seen anywhere before! Not even online-"

Aziraphale did not have the time or the energy for this. His hot chocolate was probably a lukewarm chocolate by now.

At first, the brunette continued bumbling on, then, something happened.

Aziraphale moved in just the right way, blinked with a carefully constructed conviction. Waves of forgetfulness crashed over their minds, like the ocean washing against the shore and eroding foundational pillars of rocks into pebbles, that were too swept away under the turbulent waters. They had forgotten where they currently were. Forgotten what they'd been doing. They found that the little bit of sunlight outside was more alluring than anything else they'd seen, did that newspaper floating in the wind happen to contain the compatibility of their astrology signs?

Aziraphale huffed exasperatedly as the two people replaced the books and scrambled their way out of his shop, a painfully tired sort of huff, one that escapes in a short burst of air with a great amount of force.

A moment of peace follows, where silence blankets the shop and Aziraphale can feel the tension seep out of his ancient bones-

"Sorry to bother you, sir, I was wondering-" Came from behind him. Aziraphale whirls, meeting the face of the man that had entered the shop along with the couple.

"Yes?" He asks, a little breathless.

"Well," The man starts, "I was wondering if you had any books on supernatural stuff."

Stunned by the odd request, Aziraphale raises an eyebrow. This was not the sort of shop people went into in search of 'supernatural stuff.'

The man grins at his reaction, rocking back on his heels and stuffing his hands into his pockets.

"Yeah, I'm kind of interested in occult things. Supernatural stuff. Mythology. All of that."

Aziraphale sighs but beckons the man to follow him.

"Right. I'll lead you to some that may pique your interest, my dear boy," he says, weaving among the stacks of books, "However, do keep in mind that everything here is quite expensive. Out of the average price range."

The man scoffs, waving off his concern. "Oh, it's not problem."

He reaches back to pat a backpack slung over one of his shoulders.  
A spoken "Job pays handsomely," accompanies the motion.

Aziraphale eyes the bag, notices it caves under his touch like it was nearly empty.

"Ah," he acknowledges with a frown, pulling to a stop in front of a bookshelf that may, if the man was lucky, hold a few titles of interest to him. If he was unlucky, he may find several heavy tomes seemingly fall from the shelves directly onto his foot. The bookshop could be moody and breezes could be strong.

"Well, here you are dear boy," Aziraphale gestures to the bookshelf, already trailing back to his desk, as a 'thank you!' follows him back. The shop is thankfully empty, Aziraphale notices. A job well done, then.

Sitting back into his seat, Aziraphale peers out the window. Past the bustling bodies is a steadily rising sun...and no sign of a black Bentley.  
Lifting his mug into his hands, he tuts disapprovingly as he notices the temperature of its' contents. His hot chocolate looks on dejectedly, soggy marshmallow sinking into it's cooling depths.

Crowley had promised he would be there sometime midday, and knowing Crowley lately, he would be fashionably early. 'Nothing that causes discord more than screwing up plans,' he would justify, 'Show up 'few minutes early and the whole day is thrown.'

So far though, no demon, no plan-ruining.

Just another average day post-Armageddon for Aziraphale.

"Excuse me."

Aziraphale turns, coming face-to-cover with a book.

"I would like to purchase this one," The man shows off his findings with a point to the book's cover.

"Oh," Aziraphale begins, "I'm not sure about that one, I haven't even been able to mark it's price yet. Silly me."

The man's gaze confusedly sweeps over the store. There's something in those eyes, something that keys Aziraphale into the man's determination. He inwardly sighs.

"None of them have prices on them?" The man laughs, his dark eyebrows twisting.

Aziraphale waves off his confusion, setting down his mug.

"Appears I've forgotten. No book is ready to sell then, I'm afraid."

"You...forgot?" The man's laugh is sharp, full of disbelief.

Aziraphale clings onto the lie with a nod.

"Yes. Very forgetful, me. I'd lose my own head if it wasn't attached to me!"

The man huffs out a snort through his nose, ignoring Aziraphale as he mutters something that sounds suspiciously like 'very helpful, vertebrae are.'

"Right..." He starts, "well, I don't mind waiting for you to mark it. I'd really like to buy it."

Aziraphale stutters, loses his grip on the lie as it runs out of material for him to grab onto.

"Any price, really," the man attempts to persuade. His persuasion could use some work but his sheer persistence has Aziraphale internally scowling.

"Not today, dear boy," He says firmly. The man's frown deepens, his mouth twisting sourly.

"I can pay anything, honestly."

Aziraphale almost feels sympathetic for this poor human, trying to buy out an immortal with endless funds. Almost, because he has not had a great today by any definition and he is not in the mood for human shenanigans.

The only thing he is in the mood for is some good company and some good wine.

Jaw tensing, he sends out a miracle to change the man's desires. He grabs onto the man's want for books with a parasitic intensity, squeezes it, moulds it with his will. Before Aziraphale's eyes the man loses focus on the book, plopping it on the desk and moving towards the bookshop's entrance. As the door opens before him, the man's face, which had relaxed with the bending of his mind, suddenly tenses and he shoots a wide-eyed look in Aziraphale's direction.

He races out of the bookshop, the door slamming behind him.

Aziraphale frowns for what feels like the thousandth time of the day. Weird.

He doesn't have much time to contemplate the oddity of humans, for the door is being nudged back open by a snakeskin boot. Or, something that resembles a snakeskin boot.

"What's his problem? Did mummy forget to pack lunch?" Crowley saunters into the shop, holding the door with a hip, arms dripping with bags detailing various food logos.

"Crowley!" Aziraphale chirps, delighted to see his friend appear.

"'S my name," Crowley says, holding up the bags, "You going to help?"

"Oh, yes, of course. Sorry, dear." Aziraphale stands, relieving Crowley of the weight of several bags. As he handles the bags he notices that they come from different places and, by the smell of things, contain different foodstuffs. Crowley had really gone overboard. Aziraphale eyes Crowley purposefully as he plops the bags onto his desk (which had been cleared of everything but the sad mug of hot chocolate.) Crowley turns away from the look, nose scrunching as he sniffs in feigned nonchalance.

"I got a bit carried away. But. No need to figure out what you're in the mood for, yeah?" Crowley explains, placing the rest of the bags on the desk to join the others.

And just like that, the horridness of his day is nothing but a faint memory, Crowley has replaced it. Replaced it with his tight smile, his snark, his nature to provide everything Aziraphale could ask for. Warmth swells in his chest and Aziraphale presses a hand to Crowley's arm in gratitude.

"Thank you, dear." Aziraphale grins, continues to smile even as Crowley pointedly looks away, clearing his throat and stepping further into the shop. Ever bashful, he is.

The door closes with a ding of the bell.  
Crowley's face pinches as the door shuts behind him, eyebrows drawing tight over the rim of his glasses.

"Smells all divine in here," He says, a sneer in his voice, "Like a heaven-bomb went off."

Aziraphale tuts, barely restraining an eye-roll. He gently thumbs the crook of Crowley's arm before pulling away.

"That's rather dramatic. It was just a few miracles," He says, leaning over the desk in order to peer into each of the bags. Breakfast had been tainted by an unpleasant morning and Aziraphale was excited to have a good meal.

"Is that how we're defining 'a few' now, is it?" Crowley snorts, giving a pointed sniff.

"Oh, don't be theatrical, dear." Aziraphale huffs, rummaging through the bags eagerly.

"Thought you were fond of them." Crowley starts, Aziraphale looks at him, "Theatrics."

"Ah," Aziraphale says, "Perhaps when done by actors on a stage."

He continues to look through each bag, examining the contents accompanied by pleased hums. Everything appeared in perfect condition. The correct temperature they should be and in an appropriate shape. Considering the amount of bags Crowley had acquired, and the effort needed to ensure all were kept so flawless, Aziraphale concluded several miracles must have been involved. He gives a delighted wiggle.

Crowley watches amusedly, an arm poised behind his back.

"If theatrics were kept to the stage the world'd be boring. And what would be the point of saving it then, huh?" Crowley shifts against the corner of the desk, eyeing Aziraphale's search.

Ignoring his point, Aziraphale pauses, eyes sweeping over the bags as a collection. He lets out a thoughtful 'hmmm,' that was more representative of a polite disappointment than any sort of actual thinking.

"You looking for this?" Crowley asks, moving to reveal a bag hidden behind his back. One that Aziraphale had indeed been looking for.

"Oh! You wily serpent!" Aziraphale scolds playfully, taking the bag and it's contents away from his friend with a huff.

"It's the job," Crowley starts, pauses, "Well, hobby. Really."

Aziraphale lets out a pleased gasp as his look through the bag reveals some crepes. Ones that Aziraphale knows are only available early in the morning before they're all sold out by a rush-hour crowd.

"Thank you, my dear." He flashes an appreciative smile at the demon. He tries to put his gratitude into the stretch of his lips, his joy in the flash of his teeth. Crowley immediately glances away, glasses concealed high over his eyes and Aziraphale isn't sure he succeeded.

"Ehh," Crowley deflects, "Wasn't hard to get, doesn't need a thanks." He clears his throat, stuffs his hands into his pockets. Pockets that really should not have been able to contain his hands at all, let alone a smartphone and an empty packet of rat-treats he'd forgotten were there.

Always deflecting, always humble, always protecting them both Crowley is. But they don't need protecting anymore.

And well, Aziraphale couldn't have the bringer of his meal go without a proper thanks, could he?

  
"Let me pour us a drink," He offers, already leading them over to the couches tucked away in a corner of his bookshop. He pauses when Crowley doesn't follow.

"Can't say no to that I s'pose," Crowley agrees, awkwardly hovering where he stands. Aziraphale takes grasp of his elbow, tentatively pulls him along. Crowley doesn't protest so Aziraphale continues with his bold touch.

He's shocked himself, really. Who knew good food would be enough for him to facilitate such contact?

The couches are well-worn and inviting. Sinking down in his armchair, Aziraphale lets go of Crowley, who promptly sits down on the opposite lounge. Well, sitting isn't a good description for what Crowley does.

"What happened to your shoe?" Crowley questions, head cocking as an eyebrow raises over the rim of his glasses. Aziraphale startles, Crowley nods down at his shoes.  
"It's got a scratch."

Aziraphale sighs as he eyes the scuffed toe, the line rough against his otherwise polished shoe.

"Oh," he pouts, "Yes, I had the misfortune of scuffing it this morning on my way to breakfast."

Crowley frowns, peers at the shoe contemplatively.

"Clumsy me," Aziraphale, blinks down at the scratch sadly, turning his foot out so it catches the light.

"Huh." Crowley shifts, hand raised. With a snap of his fingers, the scratch erases from the surface of his shoe, along with the tea-stain on the sleeve of his coat.

"Oh! Thank you!" He beams, twisting to admire the mended shoe and renewed sleeve.

"Ngk. No need." Crowley folds his arms across his chest, folding back into the chair with a shaky scowl.

"Of course there's a need, dear, that's much better!" Aziraphale cheeps, clapping his hands together, pleased. He stands, straightening his bow-tie as his shoulders roll in a satisfied wiggle.

"I'll go bring us some bottles!" Aziraphale smiles, ignores Crowley's dazed hum in response as he rushes away to get the necessary alcohol.

...

After indulging in some food they break out the wine.

It doesn't take long to get completely out of hand. In this case, for them to get totally, irrevocably smashed.

Crowley had shed his glasses and his blazer, the accessories draped over different surfaces. He was currently doing an accurate impression of a dead body's chalk outline, in which he was a vague representation of a physical form with limbs splayed in many different directions. Unlike a chalk-outline, however, he was not a portrayal of a dead body _and_ he was equipped with a bottle of wine. Two wins for Crowley.

Aziraphale on the other hand, looked just as he always did, but perhaps a little less put together. Also a win for Crowley.

"So, we meeting up tomorrow for the...uh, that cafe, yeah?" Crowley's head tips back into the lounge, gaze on his drinking companion. Aziraphale freezes, glass to his mouth and eyes wide.

"I thought we had plans for...Tuesday." He frowns. The concentration taken to furrow his brow leaves him a little wobbly in his chair.

"M'yeah, but. Things change." Crowley shifts restlessly, "You don't have any other plans do you?"

"I suppose not," Aziraphale sighs, "Although there has been a particular novel calling my name that I'd been looking forward to answering."

His eyes find their way to the bookshelves. Where was that book? Literary works by this author had a habit of finding themselves in rather interesting nooks and crannies in the bookshop. The worst spot had been when he'd found a book atop his world globe from 1491 (which had miraculously updated with time). Not because it was particularly hard to find, but because it had been so easy after all.

Crowley's eyebrows knit together, "Nobody says that, Angel, books aren't phones." Crowley stares off into space, eyes unfocused and more than little disturbed.  
"Phones can be books. Books aren't phones."

Aziraphale sips from his glass. He imagines returning to the cafe from this morning and shudders.

"Either way, I'm not sure I'll be free," He says. Crowley groans.

"Come on! It'll jus' take an hour!" Crowley attempts to persuade. The attempt must work, as his imploring stare is enough for Aziraphale to acquiesce.

"Fine," Aziraphale huffs, sighing like it was a great inconvenience to be taken out to eat.

Silence reigns for a few moments.

"Can books be phones?" Just for a few.

"What?" Aziraphale says in confusion.

"What?" Crowley parrots.

"I'm much too drunk for this, dear," Aziraphale presses his glass to his forehead, the coolness soothing against his flushed skin.

"Yeah." Crowley agrees. Quite drunkenly.

They proceed to stay drunk.

"Have you thought about how things can change?" Crowley questions, bringing his legs from their usual sprawl to crossing over each other in a more refined, but still out-stretched position.

"Of course. You won't stop being exis-exi- the deep thoughts." Aziraphale promptly gives up trying to say any big words. At least, for the moment.

"Na, not the Not-Armageddon. Well. Sort of. How things can change now," Crowley says.

"What? To the world?"

"Eh." Crowley shrugs, but the distant look in his eyes betrays his nonchalance as fake, "Talking 'bout us, mostly."

"Oh." Aziraphale isn't sure what to say about that. He takes another sip.

"Yeah. _Oh_ ," Crowley swigs from a bottle, "So, you've thought about it?"

"I think so," Aziraphale hums, "I'll remember when I'm sober."

He doesn't try to speed up the sobering process. He takes a sip.

"Tha's good. 'Cause, I was thinking too," Crowley puts down the bottle on the table in front of him, in order to provide his full attention to the conversation.

"Mm. Dangerous." Aziraphale's attention, however, is still very much divided...and fading.

"Yeah. And, we don't have to play by others' rules anymore," Crowley points out.

"Mm?" Aziraphale hums, rotating his glass in hand and watching his drink rise and fall in waves as it twirls to the motion of his hand. Crowley continues on, unaware of Aziraphale's sudden lack of attention.

"Yeah, _mm_. Own side. It's 'n the fine print. 'Follow your own rules.'" Crowley stretches a hand out in front of him, like he was printing out a label in front of their eyes. This must spark something in Aziraphale's hazy, drunk-muddled memory.

"Own side. Just the two of us." Aziraphale's eyes are a touch unfocused, his despondent stare into the swirling red mass of his wine akin to a sailor's morbid awe at the writhing ocean seething below his boat. Crowley doesn't seem bothered by this, because he nods, eyebrows raising as if he was impressed at Aziraphale's ability to remember the conversation.

"N'yeah, exactly!" He continues, excited, "And if we go by our own rules, we can change those rules too."

"Mandate." Aziraphale comments, gaze drifting over to the floor.

"Yeah, potato tomato-"

Aziraphale cuts Crowley off mid-segue.

"I like potatoes. Very versa-adap- comes in many shapes." The conversation has meandered over to food, and Aziraphale's interest is piqued.

Crowley makes a vague disapproving sound while Azirphale smiles, pleased.

"Mash isn't a shape," Crowley interjects, then raises a finger, "Neither are fries."

"No, the square ones. Those are the really tasty ones." Aziraphale sighs, seemingly irritated Crowley doesn't understand the quality of square fries.

"Whatever. Anyway, I was saying-what was I saying?" Crowley's face scrunches in annoyance, an expression that curls lips and squints eyes. Aziraphale's flash of irritation melts like butter, as he watches Crowley squint at the air like it could reveal all the answers.

"Fine print," Aziraphale mumbles, to the rescue, "The little words." He hovers his fingers close together, demonstrating just how small the words are. And they _are_ rather tiny, although the second sentence _under_ them is even smaller, a minuscule 'At your own risk' that Aziraphale and Crowley have elected to ignore. Or simply cannot read.

"Oh, yeah! Our side." Crowley finds the point, snapping his fingers as it comes back to him. He shifts on the couch, swipes at the bottle in front of him and takes a desperate swig.

Aziraphale is back to watching the wine in his glass, finding the little bubbles spawning on the sides when he moves it rather entertaining. "Oh."

"It can be whatever we want it to be. It can change." Crowley relaxes back into his seat, bottle in hand and legs automatically sprawling as far apart without dislocating from his hips, as if each knee had a magnet that was repelled by the other.

Aziraphale cannot see this indecency, for he is too busy watching one bubble swell too large, popping and sending the clear film back into the wine. He feels a little spacey and can't help but think the bubble was a physical representation of his focus. Stretched too thin and ready to collapse, Aziraphale takes another sip.

Crowley appears smug, eyeing his companion with no awareness of the current vacant look in his eyes, or the tempting distraction of bursting air bubbles.

"That's my point!" Crowley nods triumphantly, the movement causing him to sway forwards like a marionette with its strings cut. Righting himself with a jerk, he takes another chug from the bottle and slams it back down on the table.

The sound startles Aziraphale out of his spiralling thoughts about the comparison between himself and bubbles and he blinks away the haziness, cradling his glass close to his chest.

"I 'spose." He traces the rim of his glass, a frown on his face, "That's new though?"

This seems to catch Crowley off guard, for he recoils with an incomprehensible grumbling sound.

"Uh, yeah. Tricked the baddies. Well, goodies too. Whole switcheroo thing." He indicates the 'switcheroo thing' with a twirling wrist.

"Shh!" Aziraphale hushes sharply, leaning forward in a swift motion and bringing a finger to his own lips. Crowley-very politely, Aziraphale thinks- ignores that his finger misses its target and instead squishes into his cheek.

"Can't hear us, Angel, they aren't here." Crowley murmurs, voice a placating rumble that has Aziraphale settling back into his seat, a pout on his wine-stained lips.Something that may have been 'Can't be too careful,' or something entirely different leaves him in a chastised under-the-breath grumble.

Crowley's eyes begin to trail in an eye-roll before he remembers what he was talking about and they abruptly refocus.

"So, yeah. Can change, but hasn't."

"I think a lot has changed." Aziraphale hums, wine sloshing in his glass as he wriggles in his chair in order to get comfortable, much like a bird settling over their nest of eggs.

"To us?" Crowley queries, one eyebrow attempting to join his hairline.

"Yes. Feels like a clean sleet," Aziraphale pauses, "Slate?"

"Well, yeah. Not much going on in the sleet is there, though?" Crowley charges forward.

Aziraphale simply huffs his disagreement, shaking his head as he brings his glass back down to his lap.

"Always much. Just the other day we visited the botan- plant gardens." He contently smiles at proving Crowley's point-whatever it had been, he had promptly forgotten-wrong.  
Crowley makes a series of disapproving, choked noises before he remembers how to use words again.

"That's not new!" He protests.

"It opened just last month, dear." Aziraphale tuts, the slow shake of his head worryingly drowsy to a Crowley who still has to support his point.

"No!" He makes sure Aziraphale is still listening, "Not new to us."

Aziraphale sighs, his head lolling back until his gaze is skyward.

"I know, but 's just a little flower." He says softly, words running into each other with a drunken slur that leaves them flowing like a stream, bumping into rocks but still carrying on their merry way.

"Not the gardens, _us_ ," Crowley emphasises. One of his legs has begun to bounce, heel pushing his limb to rock with force enough to jitter his whole body. Even the bottle on the table in front of him is compelled to bounce with his movements, contents nervously sloshing.

"Yeah. It's fragile." Aziraphale agrees with a wave of his hand that nearly knocks his glass over.

Crowley does roll his eyes then but proceeds to lean on his leg with an elbow, halting its jumping. He waits for a moment, watches Aziraphale admire the ceiling before continuing.

"You didn' even like the flowers that much, you fawned over the fly-eating fuckers."

Aziraphale's head snaps up with an offended gasp. Wine practically splashes over his trousers, but is stopped in its tracks by an attentive miracle.  
"Crude!" Aziraphale admonishes, "They are carniv-"

"Whatever. 'M talking about us, not flowers." Crowley huffs without any bite to his words. His chin rests in the cradle of his hand, gently swaying with the restrained movement of his restless leg. Aziraphale's eyes follow the motion like one might when trying to get hypnotised.

He takes another sip of his drink before trying to explain his internal metaphor.

"It just needs a little space to grow," He rationalises, imagining a little budding sprout in a big field. Free from cows who might crush it under-hoof and bugs who eat away at its leaves and surrounded by plenty of sun and soil and whatever else it is that plants require to grow big and strong. The sprout is them. Well, no, not them. Their relationship. Or something...Aziraphale can't quite remember.

Crowley looks very lost, lips parted and eyes dizzy with bewilderment.

"We're too far gone for this," He sighs, blinking away his confusion.

"That's not new." Aziraphale points out, his little plant dream fading away and leaving him just as lost.

"Sobering up," Crowley announces, leaning back and stretching as if preparing for a strenuous task. Aziraphale eyes the long lines of his body as he registers the words.

"I'll follow," He decides, putting down his own glass.

And just like that, with some persuasion of the miracle kind, the alcohol is purged from their systems, bottles refilling and stoppers being replaced.  
The sudden clarity provided from clear blood leaves them both dizzy, swaying in place as their senses adjust.

A vague sound of disgust leaves Crowley as he attempts to clean his tongue of taste by scraping his tastebuds against his teeth.

"Right then," He shakes his head as if the motion can dispel the flavour from his mouth like water from a dog's fur.

"Yes. Rather." Aziraphale can attest to the unpleasant taste, smacking his lips in discomfort. Once the room stops spinning, they refocus.

"Think we went off on a tangent there, but, point still stands," Crowley directs them back to the conversation.

Standing, Aziraphale brushes down his clothes and begins to collect the bottles in order to return them to their cabinet.

Under his breath he mutters a soft, "Your points have wobbly balance, my dear."

He waits to watch Crowley's face twist with surprise before whisking away, bottles and glasses held close to his chest.  
The demon barks out a laugh, an unrestrained sound that catches both of them off guard. Aziraphale beams, bottles clinking together as he hurries to return them. Hearing Crowley's laugh is a prize, one he treasures for being skilled enough to receive.  
It leaves him giddy, pride welling up in his chest like a cake mix rising in an oven.

"Hey! Watch the thorns," Crowley calls, raising his voice so Aziraphale can hear him past several bookshelves. Aziraphale wonders if he's smiling toothily.

"I apologise!" Aziraphale laughs breathlessly, tucking bottles back away in his cabinet. He hears what seems like a snort and somethings suspiciously like a 'yeah, sure.'  
Striding past rows of books he rounds the corner of a bookshelf, returning to the lounges.

"I suppose I am a bit like the rose you gave to me at the gardens," Aziraphale perches back on his seat, basking in Crowley's unbidden joy. He tries to spur it on.

"Or stole from," He says wryly, "I presume."

He watches with anticipation for a reaction from underneath lowered eyelashes.

Crowley gives a satisfying performance, his face collapsing into a scowl, eyebrows drawn tight and offended. Aziraphale can still see the amusement in his eyes. It glitters like gold embers, sparking away from a fire and rising into the night sky.

"I can grow my own bloody roses, don't need the garden's," Crowley sneers, but the twitch of his lips is too high, reveals his own happiness along with canine teeth that might be, if inspected closely, just a bit sharper than the average human's.

This thing between them, that flower, flourishes, petals uncurling hesitantly and reaching out to the sun. A precious entity that quivers uncertainly, solid but unsure of how to move and act and breathe after being trapped for so long.

Aziraphale imagines that if he could take it in hand it would feel like it was composed of a thousand textures, the lush grass of Eden, the hot sands of the deserts, the aphrodisiac of smouldering rubble. And the bookshop. This moment between them, shared laughter, intoxicating glances and just a stretched limb of space.  
All condensed into something he could cradle, like a representation of his beating heart, fluttering at being so close, after yearning for so long-

"And that's the point, the perfectly- _fine_ standing one. A whole rose."

While Aziraphale has been crafting some sort of abomination of metaphors it appears Crowley has also been thinking, although his thoughts seem to be more on-brand for the current conversation. A treasured rarity.

Aziraphale is glad he has Crowley to stop him from drifting away. A tree is only as good as its roots. Or, flower, rather.

"Mm?" Aziraphale responds, startled at his runaway mind.

"This thing, Angel," Crowley says exasperatedly, if not a bit fondly, "Our thing. Side. Whatever we want to call it. I gave you a _rose_."

Aziraphale is not sure if the emphasis was needed, but appreciates the redirect to their conversation.

"Yes. A lot has changed," He hums, thinking of that little flower, proudly showing off its new petals where it wasn't allowed any before.

"Yet nothing has," Crowley sighs. He had drawn himself tight on the couch, arms crossed, fingers fidgeting an unrhythmic pattern into sleeves.  
Aziraphale freezes. Crowley is shrinking in on himself, jaw tense and lips flattened.

It's a one-eighty from his behaviour from before and panic rises through Aziraphale, a hand that clutches onto his throat, digs in with shaking fingers.  
The thing between them is raw and vulnerable, soft and quivering.

He needs to soothe it, he needs to explain, needs to get Crowley laughing again-

"I-," He pauses, thinks back to thousands of moments of repression, thinks that the Thing is so much more complex than he can even begin to describe, feels it rise until it's bigger than his grasp on it, reaching higher than his form, filling every crevice and all the space. It shivers, finally free and more frightened than ever. Suffocatingly confused without chains and shackles.

"It's rather much." Is all Aziraphale can muster, swallowing around an invisible lump taking residence in his throat.

"What, nothing?" Crowley bites. They both freeze. The tension is thick, heavy in the air they share. They avoid the other's eyes, they don't need to see the emotions that play across each other's faces. They can guess them well enough. They've been doing this dance for six thousand years now, after all. They take turns, pushing, receding, taking shaky steps forward, forced by circumstances out of their control.

"M'yeah," Crowley starts, voice small and soft, "didn't mean that."

This is Aziraphale's chance, he can turn this around, change this into another step forward.

"Our side is...everything, Crowley." He reassures before the words can be washed away from his mind. His voice trembles, held steady but with a quaver he tries to force away. He reaches out, falters, gathers courage and presses his hand across the space between them to land on Crowley's knee.

"Yeah?" Crowley unravels, just a little, coaxed out of his protective stance. He must be able to sense the Thing as well, the vulnerability, the chance to let it thrive or for it be squashed.

It's too much to let go, but thousands of years build expectations and hopes that are precarious. The dance only has so many steps, extending it requires an experienced choreographer. And neither of them are the best at dancing.

"But it's also a lot," Aziraphale continues, feels a weight on his shoulders, an unexplainable tiredness in his joints, under his eyes.

"That makes sense," Crowley justifies, hands shaking as much as his voice. Aziraphale rubs a thumb over the stretch of his knee. He is poised at the edge of his seat in order to reach, but comforting Crowley is worth the ache of the chair digging into his thighs.

"Everything is lots. More than nothing, anyway."

Aziraphale isn't sure that makes the most sense, but Crowley's need to placate, eagerness to smooth past the awkwardness is reassuring nonetheless.

It works, too, the quiet festering between them has calmed, no longer tense and restless.

Crowley is staring at him, watching him silently. Aziraphale feels like that stare can see through him, through the opaqueness of his corporation to the parts hidden beneath. All the lies, the guilt, the shame, the fear. Crowley can see it all with just one look, study it, examine it.

He's been able to see through Aziraphale for so many years, he's looked and hasn't rejected anything. That same look scours him now, searching for the tenseness in his brows, the trembling of his fingers, the shift of his thighs.

"What are you scared of, Angel?" It's quiet, unwilling to disturb the tentative atmosphere. His voice has the barest hint of a tremor, a wobbly note that relays everything.

Aziraphale isn't sure he's heard anything so tender-so gentle, so them. He wants to echo it back, wants to reflect the feelings without this crushing feeling creeping up on him, whispering in his ear how everything could go wrong.

_Watch over your shoulder, Principalit_ y. It coos, hands an icy brush over his nape, a wringing of his stomach, a squeeze of his heart.

He lets go of Crowley's knee, hand withdrawing back to his own lap.

"I-I don't know. Not exactly," Aziraphale manages, aware of Crowley's gaze as it sweeps gingerly over his face.

It's true, he doesn't know. Wouldn't know how to vocalise it if he did. Everything is deafening, loud hopes, loud fears; and Aziraphale just wants some peace. He could mess things up so easily, then what would it all have been for? Or things could go perfectly, which begs why he took so long?

"It's just..." His hand waves in a vague gesture, "Indescribable, really."

A rush of air leaves Crowley as the demon settles back into his seat.

"Ineffable." He says, a quiver to his rumbling voice.

Aziraphale wants to apologise, to take it back, sweep everything under the rug so they can go back to their ancient dance; feelings left trapped but unwounded-

"It's 'lright. I'm scared too." Crowley derails his train of thought with a simple admission, a confession of honesty and trust that has Aziraphale breathless.

"Really?" He tries to catch Crowley's eye now and the demon allows it, seems to realise the support he needs without any verbal communication.

"Yeah. World's scary." Crowley stares, "That's why we like it, though, innit? Scary and full of surprises and _it didn't end_. Got all the time now to work through it."

Just like that, all of the tension bleeds away, leaves the space between them feeling entirely safe and comfortable and _them_.

Aziraphale has no way to show Crowley just how much he appreciates it.

"That is true," Aziraphale agrees, feels the beginnings of a shaky smile spread on his face.

"One step at a time then, Angel," Crowley says, gentle as ever, "On Earth, together."

And _that_ , that is a thousand 'You can stay at my place's,' innumerable 'We can run off together's,' a lifetime of 'To the world's,' it says everything they can't yet say and more.

Aziraphale wants to laugh and cry and sing and dance and create a million miracles because this thing they have, on Earth, is unbreakable.

Armageddon couldn't stop it, Heaven and Hell couldn't stop it, at this point Aziraphale doubts even God herself could stop it. And maybe that was wrong of him to think, but he can't seem to find it in himself to care.

They'll always have each other, be there for each other, no matter what else comes their way.

"On our own side," Aziraphale whispers, watches as Crowley's lips quirk into a happy smile, whole face as relaxed and joyous as Aziraphale's ever seen it.

The demon looks young, in the youthful way that children do, unguarded and oblivious to societal expectations, before they've been told that happiness should be limited.  
He looks like he's just been asked to hang the stars, like he's just felt the cool breeze of Eden brush by his scales for the first time, he looks like he's tasted his first wine, performed his first rescue, been set free.

Aziraphale put that smile there. He helped the most radiant smile spark into existence and he's excited for the chance to cause a thousand more smiles, all the stretched lips and crow's feet in the world. In his world, which exists the two of them at peace, happy and in-

"Sounds like an indie band," Crowley snorts, canines peeking out from under his top lip. It appears while Aziraphale was praising that smile, Crowley had wandered off in a different direction.

"Our own side?" Aziraphale attempts to get back on track.

"Oh," Crowley's face twists, "Yeah, no. Maybe for something else."

"You think about it, my dear." Aziraphale soothes, basking in that sun-ridden smile.

"Still think we need embroidered jean jackets," Crowley mumbles, eyes sharp as they trace (currently) imaginary jean-jackets about a foot left of Aziraphale's head. They would be covered in little spikes and the font, detailing their newfound freedom and acceptance in their relationship, would be comic sans. Duh.

"Are you sure you put back all the alcohol?" Aziraphale asks, very bastard-like.

"Hardy-har." Crowley shifts, a too-joyous-to-be-a-sneer, sneer on his lips.

The bubbling joy between them shifts, calms, settles like a wave losing its energy as it stretches across a beach. The comfort of a shared connection leaves them giddy and content, able to bask in internal and external warmth.

"What's the time?" Crowley asks, voice quiet, trying to smooth over the break in serenity.

Aziraphale fumbles for his pocket watch, apparently not only forgetting exactly where it is on his person, but also how to work dastardly human fingers. He finally finds it, only for Crowley to remember he has a watch.

A big, expensive watch that can not only tell the time in several places around the world, but also one place off of Earth. He has no use for this function anymore.

Aziraphale harrumphs as Crowley rolls up his sleeve to flash his watch.Crowley sighs, slides from the couch in one big stretch, all long limbs and zero joints.

"You on your way, then?" Aziraphale can't curb the disappointment in his voice, it shows in the tense politeness, in the rising of his eyebrows.

"Mm, yeah," Crowley placates, "Plants are needy buggers, leave for a second and they'll wilt. 'Specially my succulents. Serious separation anxiety that lot."

"Alright then, Crowley." Aziraphale watches as Crowley shrugs into his blazer, rolling his shoulders and snatching his glasses up from the table.

"Do say hello to them from me, won't you?" Aziraphale tries to stall, feels the warmth slip away as Crowley flicks open the arms of his glasses, slides the lenses over the bridge of his sharp nose. Aziraphale thinks it's rather a shame to conceal his eyes. When he can see the brilliant gold it means Crowley is relaxed, is unguarded, is trusting a part of his identity to Aziraphale so wholly and openly.

Aziraphale feels shame curdle in his stomach, suddenly warping what had been excitement into guilt, like the first bubbles in an about-to-be-boiling cauldron.  
Crowley is able to trust him, to deal with him for so long, to continue setting the pace for the both them and Aziraphale can't even discuss what they are without choking on his words like a bumbling, neglectful fool.

"Sure, Angel." Crowley is watching him and oh- even behind dark glasses Aziraphale can sense the fondness, the utter adoration pouring from those slitted pupils. How can he feel ashamed when somebody cares for him this much? Cares enough to look at him like he's the brightest star in the sky, the first flower of Spring, that seashell uncovered from the sand and brought home. No matter what he's done or said over the years.  
He and Crowley are going slowly. And that's okay. Aziraphale needs to stop regretting the past so he can focus on the future, the only place where they can thrive. He can do it with Crowley's support.

"Tomorrow, then?" Aziraphale asks, flushes the shame away with a deep breath that stirs his lungs into life, washes him back to the calm provided by Crowley's company.  
The demon approaches the door, looks back with a smile so soft, so happy. Aziraphale's inner tension melts entirely and he returns the smile. Crowley still cares. They'll be okay.

"You can count on it," Crowley agrees, heading towards the door.

Opening it, Crowley gives a casual salute on his way out. Aziraphale-very politely, he thinks-ignores as Crowley misjudges the space his corporation takes up, causing him to bump into the door frame and practically stumble out of the bookshop.  
The door closes with a ding of the bell and Aziraphale sits back, revelling in the idea of freedom, of second chances, of patience and fondness.

His eyes find a singular rose, perched in a thin vase on his desk. Despite its limited access to roots, water or sunlight like many a plant needs, it remains un-wilted.

It could remain that way for 6000 years if that was expected of it. And, given the chance, it could bloom.  
Aziraphale smiles.

Change really could be worthwhile.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley continue on with their lives while a stranger prepares for his greatest project yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey!  
> Thank you to everyone who's read the first chapter so far and those who will in the future, I was at a place where I didn't think I'd ever have the courage or determination to post my writing online again, so this is very important to me : )  
> Every kudos or bookmark is very precious to me :3
> 
> If you've made it here, welcome to angst station! Tissues are complimentary and extra soft! (The chapter starts out fluffy though, I promise. Even if the following warnings don't suggest it...)
> 
> Warnings: Anxiety/panic attacks, descriptive (possibly disturbing) metaphors, implied inhumane taxidermy, animal abuse/neglect, self-loathing thoughts, violence, mentions of blood and bruises, non-consensual wing touching and a serious truckload of angst.

The advantage to a corporeal form that bends both metaphorically and literally to please the will of its owner is that Aziraphale can spend hours tucked away in a chair. Cramped in a near curled position, book inches from his face. Brilliant authors had a talent for coaxing him from his usual stiff posture into something more relaxed, more human.  
Prose can unwind the most tightly coiled parts of him, lure him into indulgence with promises of journeys beyond his own imagination, a creativity uniquely human.

Aziraphale had spent much of the night this way, immersing himself in the written word. Fascinating adventures of human creation and intellectual stimulation.  
Like all things eventually do, the book ends, as does the night. The dawn chases away the vestiges of remaining stars and the blur of well-written words from his mind, the sun rising in the pinking sky.

Stretching, Aziraphale closes the book, admires the cover with a smile laden in fondness. He places the book on his little table, nudges off his spectacles and leaves them folded on top of the novel.

Another night he might not have had. Another night well spent.

Light creeps in across the bookshop's hardwood floors, crawls up the shelves, trails fingers across the spines of books. Like the shop is waking up from a restful slumber, dust particles awaken and jump up to meet the light, books show off their titles in sleepy stretches. The building creaks and groans like an old man's joints as he climbs out of bed.

Aziraphale follows, ascending out of his chair and finding himself glad his own joints don't protest nearly as much as the bookshop's foundations. Benefits of his form following his expectations. Looking around, his post-book high recedes into a gentle warmth. Like a gentle lull of water where before there were vivacious waves.

The light brought upon by dawn reveals to Aziraphale that apparently the bookshop had some select choices about where certain books should be kept, and had dealt with the choices accordingly. His novels of the romance genre, right near the door...really?

He's beginning to question the bookshop's taste.

Well, 'beginning' would imply the bookshop's strong opinions and unusual (for a building) stubbornness is a recent development. Which it is not. Not by a long shot.

Maneuvering books overnight into particular nooks and crannies also had the habit of stirring up dust. The particles in the air are rather pretty, the way they float like twinkling lights in the sun's glow, but they aren't so pretty in the lungs.

Sighing, Aziraphale straightens his bow-tie, adjusts the sleeves of his shirt and coat. Right to work, then. Not a moment to dawdle.

With a few stern words and a disapproving frown, Aziraphale sets to re-shelving. He moves books, discourages them from listening to the bookshop's inane suggestions on placement, gives them a precursory once-over for any visible damages.

When the dust begins to tickle a throat that is usually immune to such human reactions he miracles his old feather duster right into his hand. There's something about it that gives the impression that if it wasn't owned by a divine entity with particular expectations, it would have fallen apart centuries ago. Well, that and a bit of duct tape (as a pre-emptive measure).

Placing the final book back into it's _proper_ place with a complimentary pat and a promise to be re-read soon, Aziraphale hums with satisfaction.

To an outsider, the entire shop would appear to be a chaotic mess, governed by impulsivity and a lack of organisational skills. And they would be partially right. It is a mess, but a mess with rules only distinguishable by Aziraphale.

Crowley had tried to understand the system he has in place a number of times.

'It's obscure. I know that. Come on, it's all sorted by _feelings_ isn't it?'

'Don't be absurd. It doesn't suit you.'

'That's absurd. Everything suits me. Have you seen my shoe collection? I can make the whole rainbow work for me. A _legion_ of prismatics.'

'Yes, I have. On a number of occasions. Even the...gators? Was it?"

' _Crocs_ , Angel. Hell loved 'em. Big croc fans down there. Perfect for lurking through all sorts of environmental conditions.'

'Well, sorry I don't remember, dear, I have standards.'

'Yeah, you do. Which is why this whole filin' system you have is bugging me to no end.'

'It's good to have some mysteries between us. The arrangement doesn't pertain to knowing minuscule details like the appropriate footwear for brooding hell-spawn.'

'Mysteries, _shmysteries_. Don't be like that, Aziraphale, what does it matter if your biggest enemy knows the way you stack your books. Keep your enemies closer, is the saying.'

'I wouldn't say you're my biggest enemy. Reducing the portion sizes of breakfast crumpets at my favourite diner is a big contender.'

'A bastard. That's what you are. A big bastard with bastardy bookshelves.'

'Oh, the danger I'd be in if all that brain-power was directed towards thwarting me.'

'That's right. Evil, I am. You're a tosser, but you're no match for my occult wiles. Better watch out, one moment you're sorting books by how many times you groaned at the cheesy love interest and a temptation later it'll all be alphabetical or by numbers, or _however_ the libraries do it.'

'A regular Dewey, you are, dear. Where would I be without you?'

'Probably a lot more at peace. What is it? Colour? By weight? Amount of pages?'

'No, my dear. Now stop being a menace and refill our drinks, please.'

If he's completely honest with himself (which is a tall order), Aziraphale isn't sure he knows the system entirely himself. He just _knows_ where they should go, a book tucked up here, another hidden down there. The bookshop is more orderly than him. But still wrong.

Perhaps one day Crowley will crack the code, an epiphany they can share together. For now though, it's a mystery to the both of them, he's just going to keep shelving books where it feels right...and leading Crowley to believe he has a secret system. Keep the demon on his toes.

Aziraphale blows away a speck of dust that floats too close to his face, watches it flurry away from a sunbeam and spiral up into a shadow.

Well, now that the bookshop has been fixed, it would normally be time for breakfast. Crowley is supposed to be arriving soon. Coming to whisk him off to some café.

At the thought of seeing him Aziraphale's stomach folds into knots, an overwhelming concoction of nervousness and eagerness rising through his system, swelling insistently in his ribcage before continuing to ascend to his throat.

How will things be between them? Now that they've discussed the _thing_ between them in a higher detail.

The feelings ravaging his corporation are aflutter, seemingly feather-light but able to navigate themselves into the smallest nooks and crannies of his body with practiced ease. Spiders that crawl around, bite at his nerves, spindly legs prickling along his spine, the back of his neck.

It takes a deep inhalation to dissuade the sensation from his multiplying in his chest, his fingertips, the pit of his belly.

Aziraphale finds his eyes flicking over to the window, taking in the gradually increasing crowd bustling back and forth outside.

No Bentley. No demon. Yet.

Another breath quells the frantic skitter of arachnid feet that races at the base of his throat, threatens to climb upwards. His eyes trail down, land on his desk. More accurately, they fixate on the vivid red rose in the corner.

A few breathes soothe frayed nerves, chase away the flush that was building on his skin.

Aziraphale leaves the towering shelter of the bookshelves, approaches his desk instead. The rose calls to him, it's vibrancy a shock of colour amongst browns and greens, like a piece of someone else's life nestled within his own.

He sits down at his chair, admires the rich red, the colour that obtains his focus with its consistent brilliance. The vase still sits perched on his desk, it's porcelain pearl-like in appearance in the early-morning sun. Inside, the rose poses primly, head turned towards the window.

Aziraphale studies the ruffles of petals, the delicately arched thorns decorated along the stem, the silent determination to remain strong and un-wilted. He lifts his hand, raises a petal with his finger, caresses the underside of the silky flower with a reverence he'd usually reserve for the sweetest cake or the perfect storybook ending.

This flower is a physical representation of everything they are, proof of the hidden secrecy that has gone unspoken but not unnoticed. All the little gestures, the looks, the new touches, condensed down into something he can see, smell, touch, admire. Something thriving.

After last night's conversation, Aziraphale feels like a new being. Revived and ready to begin anew. And this rose is a great start.

They can thrive just like this rose. He doesn't need to be nervous!

More at peace, the frantic steps of spiders fade from his various organs, no longer building under his skin with an increasing urgency to burst free.

Leaving the petal be, Aziraphale soaks in the morning rays of sunshine, pouring in from the window in front of him. The glow it gives his bookshop is mirrored inside, where it feels like each limb is now lighter than air, his chest a breeding ground for warmth, not bugs. Beautiful mornings like this are fodder for spawning new ideas. The rose really is a beautiful decoration to brighten up his bookshop. Maybe he could return the favour, give Crowley a rose in return?

Would he like one in ruby red? His demon did have a fondness for red. Or perhaps another colour? Aziraphale assumes black roses do exist naturally. Even if they don't, a few miracles could be spared to create a gift that matches the recipient's aesthetic.

What flower to get a being with an extreme fondness for horticulture?

There isn't much time for Aziraphale to ponder further, as before he knows it, a flash of black is produced through the window. It's swiftly followed by shouts and curses and a squeal of tires on asphalt.

Crowley was here!

It'll be the first time seeing each other since their talk the night previous. Swallowing any rising nervousness, Aziraphale waits as Crowley enters the bookshop. His eyes flutter around, finding yellowing pages brittle with age, the grain pattern running through his desk, the rose staring expectantly back at him.

He can do this. It'll be worth it.

The chime of his shop's door dings, accompanied by the door creaking open.

Twisting in his chair, Aziraphale watches as Crowley saunters into the shop, hips swinging. His hands are stuffed deep in his pockets and there is visible indication as to how he opened the shop's door.

It's a relief to see him, garbed in black, shades concealing his eyes, looking like it's any normal day.

Aziraphale can feel the nerves attempt to return but he quickly breathes, beats it back and wills it away.

"Morning," Crowley nods in greeting, nudging the door shut behind him. Aziraphale smiles in response, looking over his friend.

There's a familiar nervousness to Crowley, like looking into a mirror. There's a tenseness that is shakily hidden underneath a cool facade. His smile is a little too tight, posture a bit too rigid for the usually loose-limbed serpent. Aziraphale can see it, is drawn to the nuances of difference in Crowley, can inspect every part of him like he's a microscope tuned to the specimen of Crowley.

He assumes it's because of similar reasons to Aziraphale's own distress, their conversation.

Aziraphale can't blame him, the talk they had has shifted beyond the capabilities of anything they've allowed themselves to do before.

It's changed things, nearly imperceptibly, but there is something different. A mixture of hope, of fear that things have been changed for the worse, of a sick sort of trepidation that sets their hearts a-flutter but leaves their stomach twisted in knots.

The tension is visible in the wandering of their eyes, the silence that escapes their lips.

If they can just push past it all, they can return to normal and go further.

"It's a good one, especially now you're here," Aziraphale makes the effort, pushes those boundaries. He stands from his chair. Crowley makes a nonchalant, incomprehensible mumbling noise. Aziraphale brushes off his waistcoat, flashing Crowley a grin.

The demon's figure relaxes a fraction, coaxed into normalcy by the angel's sunny behaviour. Aziraphale's emotions reflect the change, follow suit into a more relaxed state.

"Let's head off, shall we?" Aziraphale questions, gesturing towards the door.

Crowley freezes for a moment before he's nodding in response, stepping out of the doorway.

"Uh, yeah. Yeah, 'course."

Aziraphale takes the lead, nosing his way out of the shop, Crowley on his heels.

The sun peeking out from beneath clouds shines down, breaks through greying clouds with strength to rain on the crowds of bumbling people meandering throughout their day. When Crowley steps out, hair lit alight like flames in the light, Aziraphale begins to lock up the shop.

A simple key-lock, all further protections had been set in place very soon after returning to their respective homes after dining at the Ritz. Existence had been uncertain and the crash after the hype of fooling their former sides had lead to a panicked rush of ensuring their spaces were safe from potential heavenly and hellish intruders.

Crowley hovers nearby while Aziraphale finishes, waiting silently before leading them over to the Bentley.

Aziraphale isn't up to date on driving etiquette and the laws of the road, but something in the way Crowley has parked screams illegal, which is no surprise to Aziraphale.

Settling in, they shut the doors, the Bentley's engine springing to life in response.

"Buckled in?" Crowley murmurs, the dry tone leading Aziraphale to believe he is being somewhat sarcastic. Aziraphale tuts disapprovingly.

"Road safety is important, dear," He replies, listening for the click of his seatbelt.

Crowley fixes him a look. Aziraphale catches the glint of his glasses, the sun turning one lens translucent. The demon's hair is a fiery red in the sun, like lava where it peaks over his forehead, all glowing reds and molten gingers weaved together.

A single eyebrow raises over the remaining opaque lens.

"If you really believed that you wouldn't be here," Crowley huffs a laugh, the one hand on the wheel tightening as he pulls the Bentley out of its parked spot and into traffic.

All without looking.

"Crowley!" Aziraphale protests, finding his hand automatically flinging upwards to grapple the handle.

Crowley simply laughs, tearing away from the bookshop with a suggestion that the Bentley should accelerate.

Aziraphale frowns as they speed around cars, buildings flashing by in the windows. He isn't sure he'll ever get used to the sick lurch of his stomach when Crowley's driving, the flip-flop each organ of his seems to commit at such recklessness. Aziraphale isn't even sure how many organs he does have, but they're all terrified of Crowley's driving.

"Where are we even going, Crowley?" He asks, barely keeps from flinching as a pedestrian gets startlingly close to washing the Bentley's exterior with their fur coat.

"Uhhh, can't remember the name. Sounded old." Crowley responds, focused with catching the street signs as they whiz by.

"Oh, lord," Aziraphale whines, fixating on a point to his right so the glimpses of road and scenery don't overwhelm him with sickening mixtures of colour.

"Not her," Crowley answers plainly, leaning back and loosening his grip on the steering wheel.

At least he seems more relaxed here, back to his loose-jointed, smooth self. Driving is certainly a time when Crowley is in his element. Aziraphale is happy to see it. There's something very enthralling about a relaxed Crowley, the gentle slope of his mouth, the confident stretch of his arm, the sun playing over the rise and fall of his chest.

It feels insane that Aziraphale is even allowed to look, to see things he stopped himself from seeing before. Admiring the hook of Crowley's nose, the dip of his extended wrist, the raise of his cheekbones, it was something Aziraphale avoided like the plague.

To be caught looking would have been dangerous, not necessarily because he could have just been caught by his superiors, but because he could have caught himself. And that would have lead to confronting things that would change their dynamic, morph it into something that could seal their fates.

A destiny of a hidden relationship, confined to shadows and unspoken words or being exposed to fatality.

But now, they're free to take that first step. His gaze can linger longer than it ever has before, find features he's only had glimpses of, examine Crowley in his most simple form, just _existing_.

"Well," Aziraphale sighs breathily, "as long as there's an adequate Danish, I'll be fine."

Crowley snorts amusedly, glancing at the Angel at his side for just a moment before returning his attention to navigation.

Aziraphale ponders, just for a moment, whether Crowley looks at him like that too, thinks of things that could have been and things that will be.

Remembering the way Crowley had looked him last night, like he was a sun and the demon was a sunflower, helpless to do anything but bathe in his light. He think so.

"Oh they'll have a Danish," Crowley mutters, "just won't know why."

Aziraphale can't help the laugh that bubbles out of him, the mirth that spills forth from his lips. Crowley seems surprised at his reaction but it garners Aziraphale a smile.

He's so lucky to be here, with Crowley, the being that's been at his side nearly as long as time has.

The person that knows him the most, understands him so intrinsically that riling him up and soothing his fears and sparking joy in him is like basic instinct.

His best friend.

Aziraphale's smile spreads across his face like a flower blooming under the morning sun. They've come so far. And they can continue to grow with each other, for eternity now.

He's scared. Crowley is too, evidently. There's a lot of habits to rework, groundwork to fix up, but they can do it together.

The Bentley begins to slow, pulling to a stop outside of a small café. Thank goodness! From the brief look of the interior Aziraphale can see, there doesn't appear to be any wild children running about. Perfect.

Cutting off the Bentely's engine with a purposeful look, Crowley lets go of the wheel, straightening his spine.

Aziraphale undoes his seatbelt, goes to remove himself from the vehicle but Crowley stops him with an awkward hovering touch to his elbow. At Aziraphale's inquisitive stare, the hand immediately retreats back to the demon's lap in a flash. His face appears tightly drawn, jaw set tensely.

"Just, hold on," Crowley says quietly, the cough that follows holds a shake.

Before Aziraphale can ask any questions the demon spins around and exits the Bentley, slamming the door after him.

Aziraphale feels his eyebrows try to merge with his hairline. What on Earth?

Abruptly his own door opens, cold air enveloping him in a rush.

"Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale titters, the fog of confusion quickly dissipating. He grins widely, lets Crowley know he's pleased as punch.

Crowley simply grumbles incoherently under his breath, still holding the door open for the angel while he exits the Bentley.

"That was very nice, my dear," Aziraphale beams. His shoulders wiggle joyfully.

Crowley ducks his head, grits his teeth as a flush descends upon his face, captures the swell of his cheekbones, the shell of his ears.

"It was not. Just..." He flounders, "don't need you breaking that door again. 'Member that, Angel? Got all pissy and instead of storming off you ended up locked in my car."

Aziraphale gasps in mock outrage, delighted at Crowley's awkward fidgeting as he shuts the door behind Aziraphale.

What a gentleman. Gentle...demon? Crowley was gentle. He probably shouldn't be, but he was gentle and nice and just too good at being everything he isn't supposed to be.

"I thought we agreed not to bring that up again." Aziraphale moves towards the entrance to the café, leaving Crowley to flutter by his side.

"No, no, you proposed we never bring it up again. I didn't agree."

"I'll summon a contract next time, you sly serpent."

They share a look, smiling contagiously.

...

The floors are white marble, streaked with grey that swirls in intricate patterns. Like a stormy sky concealed behind wispy clouds.

He moves quickly, backpack bouncing on his back as he walks. He is satisfied to note that everything appeared appropriately polished, his reflection swimming back at him from various surfaces. Not a speck of dirt in sight.

He isn't always one for cleanliness, personally.

Doesn't really mind some dirt, some grime. There's a clarity provided by the methodical motions of creating filth. A slice here, some crimson there. A tug here, some mush over there. Being able to observe the mess his actions cause gives him a sort of... _satisfaction_.

But his boss liked the place clean.

So he cleans, wipes matter away the moment he can, soaks up liquids from the floors, wears more gloves than he'd like.

A major downside to the job, he'd say. But, he gets paid for it.

The room is empty too, devoid of anything but him, his warped reflection and the squeal of his shoes over cleaned floors. Soon, if the calendar hanging above his desk in his office is anything to go by, it will be filled with chairs and tables from end to end.

And, if his recent discovery leads anywhere, the room will have a brilliant centrepiece display.

Swerving around a pillar, he comes face-to face with a tall door. He opens it, notices-proudly- that it doesn't squeak, whine or dare to make a sound. Stepping into the hall and closing the door behind him, the light dims dramatically, artificial white seeping under the door and a natural warmth sparking on the walls.

Letting his eyes adjust to the torches that line the hall, he lets the familiar chill settle over him, pimple his skin. It's always cold here.

He finds the combination of stone walls, darker marble floors and torches for lighting tacky. It's cliché and over-dramatic, but his boss wanted an 'atmospheric' display. If it were up to him, the exhibits would be brightly lit, in a beautifully decorated hall, where others could admire each specimen appropriately.

It's not up to him, though. The input he can give is minimal.

Minimal, but effective. He can plant ideas that grow like weeds. After years of practice he's become nuanced in the act of persuasion, his expert fingers know which strings to pull, which ivories to tickle, how to spin webs and stories that entrap the juiciest of flies.

He's influenced as much as he can. He's the expert, when it comes to this line of work, after all, and the boss benefits by listening to his suggestions.

Now if only he could work on changing presentation.

Perhaps this new discovery will sway the boss' mind. This deserves all the beauty and bright lights they could offer.

Passing the exhibits, the red figure at the end of the hall catches his eye, admiring a newer work of his. Shadows dance over the smooth floors, cast from flickering torches, their flames following him down the corridor.

He ignores the rumbling growl that signals from his left, bounces off the stone walls. This is commonplace.

Instead he establishes his gaze to the right, where a brilliant creation of his is fixed, eyes glassy and locked over his head.

He pauses, admires the carefully crafted position and accompanying scenery. The stitches had been tricky on that one, and it had taken a while to find suitably sized teeth, but the overall product had turned out wonderfully.

A magnificent display of human ingenuity and nature's beauty.

It had to be one of his favourites.

If things with the boss go well, this project may find itself bumped to second place.

"Hendrick!" Echoes through the hall. He turns to the call of his name, notices the red figure waving him over.

Giving a last glance to his project from claw to ear, he sedately paces over.

The boss stands still, arms poised behind him, the silky red of his jacket a smooth crimson under the wavering lights. He's staring up at Hendrick's newest creation.

He doesn't blame the boss, it _is_ a fascinating sight.

"Who would've thought?" The Boss intones, "Foxes and peacocks."

He shakes his head in disbelief, eyes roaming the display in earnest.

"It's a maned wolf, sir," Hendrick answers, unable to beat away the grin spreading his lips, "And lyre bird feathers, actually."

The Boss scoffs, attention still taken by the sight.

"Whatever it is, it's brilliant. Another job well done, Hendrick," The Boss praises, finally faces him, offers him an approving smile.

Hendrick preens, rolls his shoulders back with relief. It's unusual for someone not to be impressed with his work, but lately his boss had been vocalising his favour less and less. What had once been booming support and rises in pay, had become a resigned smile when he asked to start a new project. With today's findings, he might be able to win back The Boss' appraisal. Remind him why he hired Hendrick in the first place.

He's glad The Boss likes this piece, though.

It certainly is a job well done.

The orange creature is positioned in an elegant crouch, all long limbs and powerful posture. Feathers fan out along its back and hindquarters, plumage raised in a semi-circle above the tail. Combined with the spotlight poised low and pointed upwards, the silhouette cast against the back wall emphasises the array of delicate feathers against a strong figure.

Even if his new idea doesn't come with feathers, he might have to incorporate some regardless. Feathers just _make_ a piece.

He always gets ahead of himself. It's hard not to when it comes to supernatural inspiration. But first, he needs approval.

"My pleasure, sir."

He needs to appease The Boss, intrigue him with fantastical imagery and sweet promises of benefits galore. His discovery is worth nothing unless The Boss can envision a slice of the cake he's baking in his mind. Hendrick needs to tell the right tales, create the perfect picture to appeal to his boss.

Sneaking a glance reveals his boss is back to admiring the newest work, scrutinising the finer details in the piece. Shadows play across his face, emphasise the growing space under his furrowing brows.

"Think lyre birds and wolves will be enough?" He intones, voice low and flat. He appears to be examining the finished product on the surface, but is clearly thinking beyond what he can see.

A prickle of annoyance rolls down Hendrick's spine, like cactus spike along his limbs. He puts all of his time, energy and passion into each project. Stuffs with care, stitches with expert precision. Creating fine work worthy of praise and admiration.

When his own boss becomes his biggest critic, can no longer look at a project and see the beauty in what he creates, then what's the point in creating?

"I'm sure of it," Hendrick tries to keep his voice calm, equally as low and smooth as his boss', even when irritation boils beneath the surface of his skin.

"It's certainly a pretty sight," he gestures to the magnificent shadow, "Might be the prettiest so far, in fact."

The Boss continues to frown, lost in thought.

"I don't know... None of them seem impressive enough," He says, hesitantly. He's still looking over the work, tracing feathers and ruffles of fur, almost as if he's imagining something he could replace it with.

Oh, the ignorance needed to think of yourself as the better man, the better creator when you have created nothing but the arrogance to fill those bigger boots.

Hendrick's jaw tenses, teeth clenching together. A- The Boss- would be nothing without him.

The Boss eyes him, spots the features of his face twisting sourly.

"Don't give me that look Hendrick," He huffs, "If I wanted a kicked puppy I'd have gone to the nearest shelter."

The prickle of irritation multiplies, settles sharply in the clench of his gut. He breathes deep, tries to contain the anger there with the soothing intake of air. Hendrick can't afford to let his emotions get the best of him. He needs to control his reactions if he has any hope of roping The Boss into his next project.

Schooling his features into neutrality, face tipped down submissively, he apologises.

"Sorry, sir, I'm just proud of the work I accomplish here."

The Boss watches the change carefully, his own face relaxing with a sigh.

"I know. It's one of the reasons I hired you in the first place. That and your willingness for...discretion," He says, eyes shifting around the hall, picking apart the shadows for a scrap of something he imagined there.

"However," he continues with a cough, "despite your 'pretty' art. None of it seems to be living up to the expectations I put into place upon your hiring."

Hendrick can barely fathom anyone having such a reaction to his work. Not when that maned wolf's clear eyes implore him to admire the long, elegant lines of its limbs, the crest of dark fur, the elaborately placed plumage.

It's beautiful. But, not his greatest work. It is better that any of his live projects, by far.

He has to acknowledge though, that The Boss' reaction isn't one built on pure disappointment, it's one brewed from anxiousness and fear of rejection. It's this reaction that lends itself to the mistreatment of Hendrick's previous works, but, will hopefully be the saving point for his newest discovery.

It still boils his blood, sits hot and tight in his chest like a volcano with lava lapping at the seams of his control.

"Yes... the requirements," Hendrick starts, voice a cold, motionless lake, "I understand that, sir, but I have not only created you an infamous collection that will - _has_ \- impressed, but I have tried to meet your specifications in several pieces."

The Boss shifts away, the smooth fabric of his coat rumpling much like his brow.

They stare at each other for a moment, tension rife in the air. It charges the space between them with animosity, an exchange Hendrick hadn't intended to create. The Boss' fists are squeezing tight, revealing whitening skin over taut knuckles. He's agitated. Hendrick has made a mistake.

If he can finish this interaction with both a boss convinced on the brilliance of his new idea and a bruiseless face, he'll be considered very lucky.

"There's no doubt in your perseverance, Hendrick," The Boss starts, face darkening and tone frigid as ice.

"But your pieces haven't impressed enough in the past. Not where it counted."

It's a hard blow, one that knocks him off his feet.

Hendrick gathers all the memories of his past creations, the whites and golds and silvers that were painstakingly painted into each intricate piece. The feathers, the scales, the furs, the countless hours spent scheming and acquiring and working and decorating-

All so that this person, who used to look at him like he hung the moon and stars, could scoff and tell him to try again. He lets it fuel him, the desperation, until he's reduced to groveling.

"I've incorporated white doves into my works, Armal-" He freezes, stutters over an apology when The Boss' face tightens at the slip.

"Sorry. _Sir_. Swans and tigers and albino-" He pauses again, takes a quick inhale. He leans in close, ignores The Boss' shaking fists.

"My first human was even in that display!"

Silence blankets over them, heavy and stifling.

The maned wolf watches on, unseeing but privy to a secret conversation. A dynamic reserved for dark hallways and creatures frozen in time.

The Boss scans their surroundings with a wavering confidence. He brings his twitching arms across his chest. Hendrick watches the anger seep out of his body with a wary eye.

"I know, Hendrick," He cautions with a steely tone, "and I appreciate your help, I really do."

He takes another look at the maned wolf, the awe bleeding away, leaving only disdain.

"I just need to get this right." The Boss begins to stride away, red coat rippling with the movement.

Relief fills Hendrick's lungs in the form of air. He's avoided anything serious, scraped by with nothing but a generous scolding.

He needs more.

He can't let this project go. It intrigues him, fuels him with inspiration like nothing before. It will be monumental for the both of them. The Boss will get what he wants. And Hendrick might have more freedom in a creative and listeria sense than ever before.

Hendrick rushes after his boss, footsteps echoing down the hall.

The Boss doesn't acknowledge him, not even when Hendrick's reached his side.

"Well, sir," He begins, "I had an interesting experience today, I think it's your chance."

The Boss eyes him then, slows his pace a fraction.

"Oh, yes. Hunting for inspiration, right? Get the books you were looking for?" The question sounds polite, but his voice is dry and flat, a desert without a tumbleweed in sight. The Boss scans each exhibit as they pass, eyeing things born of fantasy and things that seem like they should be. His eyes hold no wonder, nothing but a blankness that shouldn't be reserved for breathtaking works of art.

Desperation coils tight and hot in Hendrick's chest, spirals up his throat, pushing words out before he can contain them.

"No, but I found something better," Hendrick spits, daring to stop beside another one of his displays.

He trusts that what he's said will intrigue The Boss enough, enough for him to follow his lead. It's a push and pull, and it's his turn to pull.

The Boss pauses, slowly shifts to face him. His lip is twitching, as if suppressing the urge to curl, but Hendrick can spot the spark of curiosity in his eyes, the twinkle thinly veiled by anger.

"Go on."

It's an opening. It's all Hendrick needs.

"The bookseller. There was something odd about him," He says, worming his way to the intrigue hidden underneath the burn of anger. Like mining for a diamond in the rough.

If he divulges just enough detail, constructs a tale that's just as fiction as it is reality, he might still pull this off.

"I felt it when I walked in," He starts, strings the words out as The Boss examines him closely.

"It was a bit like facing your parent after you'd done something wrong. And you know they know exactly what you've done wrong but they won't say anything. That same sort of dread."

It's a clumsy start, but working evidently, if The Boss' raised eyebrow is indication.

"Oh?"

"Yeah. And when he refused to sell his book, I-" He shakes his head as if to repel the disbelief from his head.

"Something weird happened. Felt like that minute before you wake up, when you're semi-conscious but you've already forgotten the dream. And I _had_ forgotten, what I was doing, that is."

The mask of anger falls away, leaving the intrigued interior of The Boss' face.

"Really?" He asks, his posture loosening as he listens.

"Yes. Practically stumbled right out the door before I even had a clue of what was going on."

Silence reigns for a moment as The Boss digests the information.

"So, this bookseller. You think he's...odd?"

"I think he's exactly what we're looking for."

The Boss nods as the silence continues. Hendricks watches him examine their environment, the flickering torches, stone walls, elaborate displays. Those eyes search the shadows, the light, the patterns in marble.

Finally he meets Hendrick's eyes, bobs his head in a nearly imperceptible nod.

"Well, if what you say is true, your eye for beauty proves excellent yet again, Hendrick."

And that, that's all the permission he'll ever get and the only permission he needs.

Hendrick's face splits into a grin, like a streak through the marble

"Thank you, sir. I think this opportunity will be ideal for the both of us."

Tension alleviated, they begin to walk again, nearing the door.

"When will you heading back?" The Boss questions curtly.

"Soon," Hendrick replies, "I was thinking of collecting some tools, just in case."

He goes to open the door, exit the hallway, when The Boss stops him with a jerk to his elbow, fingers digging into his coat.

Hendrick can't help but think of other scenarios where he was held like that by this man, stopped from leaving.

"How will you pull this off?" The Boss asks, "If this man is as...powerful, as your story suggests, you may need some help this time. I can lend you some guards-"

Hendrick removes the hand with a tug, melding his arm to his side. The Boss flinches, his mouth gaping as if he was thinking of saying something before it snaps shut.

"No need. Thank you, sir, but I can manage. It will be a quick, stealthy operation I assure you."

"Excellent," The Boss rights himself with a cough.

"I expect you'll be back in a few days time?"

Hendrick snorts, returns to opening the hallway door.

"It won't be long, I can promise you that."

The Boss gives an amused chuckle, watches as Hendrick steps out of the hall door.

That joy, that concern, for just a moment it makes The Boss look like how he used to, when Hendrick knew him. Or, thought he knew him.

"Good. Take what you need. Be careful."

"I always am." Hendrick turns to leave.

"Wait-" The Boss' hand darts out, brushes by his arm. They freeze. The hand retreats. It rests on the door instead, holding it open.

"Yes sir?" Hendrick answers tersely.

The Boss shifts, lets out a heavy breath.

"You're smart, Hendrick," He starts, "But you can be clumsy. You let the job take you over, don't get too caught up in it or both of us will be in trouble."

Hendrick has been in trouble before. He was the only one around to help himself. He will be the only one to help himself if things go wrong.

"I know, sir."

"Okay. Goodbye. And good luck," The Boss lets go of the door, lets Hendrick leave.

It swings shut behind him without a sound.

Hendrick stands there for a moment, a relieved breath inflating his lungs.

He won.

It was shaky there for a while, but he did it, he came out on top. And now he gets his project.

The relief fades out, the waters of excitement rushing ashore and stealing it back into the ocean's depths. The thrill of a new task shivers down his arms, raises the hair on his skin, leaves his fingertips throbbing with the beats of his heart. They twitch to grab, pull, rip.

He has to get ready. He'll instrument an outfit perfect for disguise, camouflage. He'll pack all sorts of tools, leave room for research, books! Maybe his favourite baseball bat will even get to play a part.

He strides away, footsteps loud but drowned out by the hunger roaring in his ears.

He races over to his office, ignoring staff he sees on the way. Packing will have to be quick if he plans to drive there and conduct research, construct some field work, lay out a solid plan.

Bursting into his office, he begins tearing his desk's drawers open, the items within rolling about at the abrupt movements. He unzips his bag, throws it down on top of his desk. Items spill out between the gaps in his fingers as he rummages for the things he needs in the drawers. He grabs various tools, stuffs them into his bag. There would be time to organise things later.

A bird titters nervously from behind him, startled at his entrance and aggressive searching. He turns, takes just a moment to observe its rapidly fluttering chest, the feathers that rise and fall shakily with each quivering breath. He turns back to the task at hand, reminded of his prior plans. The cage rattles as the bird tries to flutter further away from him.

"You're lucky," He says breathlessly, feeling like adrenaline has gripped him by the shirt front and punched him in the face.

Eyes vibrant, tiny heart palpating in its chest, the bird continues to signal its alarm in vocalisations that increase in volume with each movement he makes.

The effect life has on his projects is enrapturing. He's fortunate he'll be able to observe it in a new subject, soon.

"I have much more interesting things to deal with now," He's mostly talking to himself, but the bird's wings flap frantically in response, rocking the cage and sending down feathers flying in all directions. He zips up his backpack, slams shut the desk drawers.

Shouldering the bag on, he moves for the door. He needs to go. The quicker he can return to Soho, the faster he can scope out how to entice his no doubt trickiest, but most exciting project yet. Plus, stressing out the bird could only lead to bad results. As fascinating as the fear response is, it would be unfortunate if he returned only to find a bird fallen victim to a heart-attack.

He strides out of his office. Flips off the light.

Pausing, he leans back into the room.

He speaks to the darkness, the only reply the twitching of feathers that hit metal bars.

"And, if it's anything worth dealing with, it'll have wings as well."

With an exhilarated cackle, he slams the door shut behind him.

...

The café is quaint. It has a very delightful atmosphere, all comfy booths and cluttered with ornaments strewn on high shelves.

It's very much Aziraphale's style.

The high volume of plants also makes it pleasant for Crowley, Aziraphale suspects. There's a fern a few tables away that has already received quite the stink-eye. Poor dear.

It turns out, imperfect ferns aside, they have a pretty decent Danish. He's still eating, savouring the flavour behind each bite. Crowley is sitting there contently, not eating for the moment.

They are sat side by side, which is unusual for them. Normally they're situated across from one another, but Aziraphale, feeling bold after the door-holding incident outside, and fuelled by the knowledge that they were equally as scared as each other, had promptly dropped in beside Crowley on his side of the booth.

This had been much to the demon's shock. If the instant freeze he did had any indication.

It had been like Crowley was a movie on the television, paused while the viewers settled into their seats. Aziraphale was particularly proud of this comparison, Crowley would have been pleased with it, the cinephile he was.

Crowley had quickly come back to life, looking like instead of someone simply pressing the play button they'd accidentally pressed the power button and then had rushed to turn the TV back on.

It hadn't taken too long for him to get used to it, seemingly. Crowley appreciated that they had 'reserved' more space than they were using, and it meant that scathing glares reserved for misbehaving ferns weren't accidentally misdirected towards undeserving angels.

The seating was...nice. Different, but nice.

It allowed their knees to knock together when Crowley showed him an image on his cellphone, their shoulders to brush while Aziraphale reached for a sugar packet.

Such closeness is new to them, the next chapter they'd begun to explore after not-Armageddon.

It sends a fizzle of sparks down Aziraphale's side with each fleeting contact, a warmth that bleeds through their clothes like their corporations are reaching out to one another despite the boundaries of human forms.

To be able to sit here, so close, so connected, is still quite the shock. What was unfathomable before is, well, _fathomable_. And it's alarming as well as nice.

Sends a panic of electricity each time their thighs touch in the booth, jolting Aziraphale into thinking old thoughts, thoughts that run like clockwork, like carriage wheels rolling down an indented path.

What if _they're_ watching?

After using a corporation for a considerable amount of time, Aziraphale has come to realise they rely an awful a lot on unconscious reactions and muscle memory.

And that's another problem, sitting so close together, for when those thoughts start running through his head muscle memory follows, trained through repetition as a natural instinct.

When ankles bump together they'll both begin to recoil, shrinking away before they realise the reaction and collect themselves. Sometimes they won't even notice. Aziraphale had accidentally touched Crowley's wrist earlier with a wayward pinky and Crowley had immediately tucked that hand under the table, where it still sits on his leg, picking at his jeans.

The closeness _is_ nice, but it has the unfortunate effect of placing them both on high alert.

Aziraphale knows it will take time, take effort and patience from the both of them before they see any change, but he can't help the sensation of annoyance that sits hot in his chest. A frustration that boils in his sternum, seeps through pores to heat reddening skin.

A part of him wants change immediately. Wants the closeness, the security, the comfort. He wants to rid himself of the fear, the urge to spawn eyes on the back of his side, the subconscious desire to push and push away when all he can think about is pulling closer-

He wants so deeply it burns. Burns with a fiery intensity, because he can't have what he wants, he has to suffer with the fear, the thoughts, the snail's pace to even see a modicum of change within himself, let alone a change visible between them.

It burns tightly, a ball of molten lead pressing against his ribcage, oozing down into his stomach. It sits there, the feeling, will fade with time but return, like a particularly vengeful phoenix rising from ashes that never scattered in the wind.

Aziraphale has no words to even articulate the feelings. He finds that when he thinks he's got a firm grip on the right words they slip out of his hands, leaving him speechless time and time again. Last night was a lucky break from this pattern. He'd stumbled over the words, sure, found that the ones he meant to say came out deformed, twisted and mangled but he'd tried. And it had paid off, because Crowley understood. He always understood.

Aziraphale eyes the demon beside him. Crowley is peering out the window, eyebrow raised in amusement as a duck waddles about on a nearby lawn, begging for scraps of food rather vocally.

Crowley was fond of all creatures who could cause a bit of havoc (Except horses. Horses, apparently, were too hellish for Hell. Crowley's descriptor was 'Hearts as hard as stone and they'll make your buttocks match.').

Crowley snorts a laugh as the duck is rewarded for its disruptive behaviour with a bread crust. A cooling breath soothes the burn in Aziraphale's chest, dampens the fire.

If last night is any indication then Crowley is likely feeling similar things, the same conflicting longing and stress. And that's better, isn't it? That they feel the same things. Allows them to connect on a deeper level, Aziraphale imagines.

And maybe, just maybe, Crowley wants the same things he does as well.

With another breath, Aziraphale reaches down, his hand hovering above Crowley's. A finger twitches, accidentally brushes the tip of his index over the skin of the demon's hand.

Crowley pauses, halting his idle fidgeting. He's still looking out the window, but his face is blank, carefully neutral.

Aziraphale moves slowly, tentatively brings the shaking slide of his fingers over to the grooves of Crowley's own fingers.

He freezes, casts a look at Crowley. When he doesn't react, Aziraphale gently presses down, bringing the palm of his hand over the back of Crowley's, the automatic slide of his fingers causing them to fall between the gaps of Crowley's, interlocking their hands.

Crowley's chest rises in a sudden, sharp intake of breath. It releases in a whoosh when he turns to face Aziraphale. The sun lights up his glasses, the curve of a cheekbone, half of parted lips.

"Right there, Angel?" He asks, voice quiet compared to the light but consistent din of the café.

"Right as rain, dear."

It tingles, where their skin connects. Alarm bells are ringing, but they grow dimmer in volume as the seconds pass, until all that's left is a pleasant warmth and the satisfaction that they've beaten their instincts, their instilled responses.

Crowley's lips pull upwards, the corners forming a content little smile. Aziraphale can see everything those lips are, in the sun, the dip of his thin cupid's bow, the cracks of loosened skin, the tight pull on the smiling bottom lip.

Aziraphale can see other things too, the faint trace of light hairs over the demon's cheeks, a discolouration on his temple like the suggestion of a freckle, the crook of his arched nose.

Sitting here in this booth with him, Crowley appears so relaxed, just simply living.

His corporation itself is so lived in, worn like a favourite piece of clothing and here, when Aziraphale has the chance to admire each feature, the brush-strokes that make up the artwork of Crowley, he can see how at peace he is at last. How near human he is, how simply human the both of them are.

And it was so easy to think of how much he loved him.

Just a simple, fleeting thought, that meandered into his head and just as easily faded back out. Because it was a thought as basic as breathing was. Well, for humans.

He's thought it before and he'll think it again. He's said it before, not in 'I love you's,' but in countless words, countless actions. Saying it for real suddenly makes it feel more real somehow, which is frightening but a welcome idea for the future. And here, pressed together in a café booth, there's not a doubt that trickles in that Crowley doesn't love him just the same.

Aziraphale finds himself grinning, the frustration of before replaced with something equally as warm but much more pleasant.

He brushes a thumb over Crowley's hand, jolts when the hand pulls away.

Panic grips him so tight and so suddenly all he can do is freeze, breath stolen from his lungs.

Crowley shifts, and after just a moment of hesitation, pulls his arm out from under the table. He stretches his arm out so it drapes along the top of the booth. And conveniently, encircles Aziraphale's shoulders.

Stunned at the bold move, and the heat radiating from Crowley's arm, Aziraphale can only stay frozen, gauging Crowley for a reaction.

The demon stares straight ahead, his Adam's apple bobbing with a swallow and sweat beading on his hairline. Ah, so waiting for his lead.

Aziraphale beams, smile growing as he huddles closer.

"Did the duck get the meal it was hoping for?" Aziraphale questions, peering up at Crowley.

From behind his glasses Aziraphale can spot the demon's eyes dart to the window, back down to the line of their outer thighs pressed together, scan the restaurant before finally settling on Aziraphale's face.

"Ngk," He clears his throat, "Uh. Yeah. Whole crust in the belly. The good kind. Premium grade levels of crust, really."

It's awkward and spewed out in a rush but Aziraphale can tell from the response that it's exactly what Crowley needed from him, a reassurance that everything was okay, has only changed for the good.

"This all good, yeah?" Crowley asks, tapping his closed fist against the top of the booth nervously. His voice is shaky, held together with a wavering determination.

"Not...too much?"

"It is a lot, my dear. In the way a rich cake can be too much. It's good." Aziraphale hums in response, wriggles to show his comfort.

Crowley snorts at the comparison, turning back to the window as a smile slips over his face. He shifts, crosses his legs, tightens the loop of his arm, bringing Aziraphale closer to him.

"Mm. Fancy a bit of angel cake myself."

"I do think they serve some here."

Crowley's smile grows wider, rounding the shape of his cheeks, pushing up his glasses. Aziraphale thinks the crinkle of his nose is something he should strive to see more of.

"'S alright, Angel."

Aziraphale doesn't bother to question his wide smile, his general cheeriness. Not looking a gift horse in the mouth, after all. Even if the horse was from Hell.

It's warm, encircled by Crowley. His inhales lift Aziraphale, exhales bringing him closer to his side, like sinking into a mattress.

It's nice to sit there, if only just for a moment, with the being who has always been by his side, even when he couldn't be there physically. Soaking up the sun, the shared warmth, the level of comfort that can only be provided by the other.

One day they'll be able to do this freely, without worries. Sink into relaxation like slipping into a cool lake on a warm summer's day.

The silence is a blessing, an understanding between them that no words are needed, just the food, the sun, the contact, the joy of existing together.

Eventually, the moment fades away, as everything good and bad and human does. And they sense that it's time to go home, to end their time together before feelings end it for them.

Crowley drives Aziraphale home, one hand on the wheel, other entwined with the angel's by his side.

They are saddened that they have to part but amazed by the progress they've made together.

The future looks bright, brighter than it ever has, and whether they're tucked away in a café booth or strolling through St. James's Park, they have the chance for happiness.

...

Aziraphale shuts the bookshop's door behind him.

He stands in the bookshop's entrance for just a moment, back gingerly pressed to the door. His chest is filled with warmth, a lightness like a cloud gently expanding, forcing his ribs to accommodate the space needed for so much feeling.

He lets his hands rest over his sternum, thumb running over the dip of his collarbone over his shirt, as if he could hold himself together, keep the cloud from growing and encompassing him entirely.

Aziraphale listens for the purr of the Bentley's engine, the squeal of tyres as they beat up the asphalt, vehicle pulling away from the curb and speeding off into the street.

Once the outcries from surrounding pedestrians has died down Aziraphale huffs a chuckle, forces his hands down, his back away from the door.

The warmth doesn't fade, but compresses itself back into a manageable ball inside his ribcage.

A delightful outing. Crowley had been as witty as ever, sweeter than cake.

And what ventures they'd made, touching so openly, so unashamedly! It was a big change from the previous night's talk, the tension, the awkwardness that had existed. What good just a bit of communication can do.

With the receding of the warmth he begins to notice something, something that trickles into focus piece by piece, like a jigsaw being connected before his eyes.

A minuscule agitation that runs deep in the bookshop, a tenseness in the floorboards, a restlessness in the framework that surrounds him. It feels like a box of apprehension, one he's been blind to until now.

"What?" he whispers, lips pursing as he casts a careful eye at his environment.

Nothing appears out of sorts, books where he'd left them, everything in place and intact. Even his spectacles sat primly on last night's book, exactly where he'd left them that morning.

Despite the contrary evidence, the bookshop was alive with a disturbance, a deep undercurrent of uncertainty plaguing the air.

Nervousness creeps up on him, biting at the hairs on his neck until they stand on end. Heart beginning to race in his chest, Aziraphale fumbles for the umbrella he knew he'd left by the door, fingers curling around the handle and bringing it in front of him.

Firm grip on the umbrella, he creeps forward, keeping to the edge of the circular formation in the bookshop's center.

What could the shop be so worried about?

Certainly not any ethereal-or even occult- visitors? The hours dedicated to guarding the shop and Crowley's flat with rituals and extensive sigils and protective wards would prevent such guests dropping in, surely?

Although, the protections put in place were not designed to keep out humans.

The fear that had been gripping onto him was still there, fingers fisted tight in his corporation, but was not increasing.

He's dealt with countless humans before, all with different intentions. Some good, some bad, some fundamentally human. But he currently did not have any spare cake to send them home with a wayward human, which was a bummer.

He would simply deal with this annoyance and continue on with his day. Maybe call Crowley later to tell him the amusing story.

But the bookshop still thrummed with a nervous energy, an atmosphere rich with the bitter taste of suspense. It echoed back to him, built up in the cavity of his chest, set every nerve ending on edge until he was emitting the same feeling, passing it back and forth between him and his environment like an electrical charge.

Perusing the shelves, a flash of beige catches his eyes. Which is a real tall order, considering the amount of beige that lives within the building.

But this beige moves, ripples across shoulders in motion, slides down wrists as arms physically brush along spines of books.

Seeing his collection being caressed so...causally, it heightens that anxiety, boils it into anger that is like fire racing through Aziraphale's veins.

He clears his throat pointedly, lowering the umbrella to a relaxed stance. The figure freezes except for an index finger that finishes tracing over the last letter of a book's title.

"Excuse me?" Aziraphale questions sternly, the residual quiver of fear leaving his voice.

The figure turns, revealing a young man, an empty backpack thrown over a beige trench-coat.

Aziraphale tightens his posture, urges it to relay his displeasure. The man simply looks him over, eyes blank, face soft and relaxed.

"Oh, hello," The man says, voice so calmly empty, "You're back."

Aziraphale's brows knit tight, anger rising like a bubbling volcano at the man's nonchalance.

"The door was locked, dear boy. Quite purposefully."

As if he'd never spoken, the man's face cracks into a slow-growing smile that inches up his face like a weed taking root.

"I've been waiting for you," He says, resting his shoulder against a bookshelf. Two books slide backwards in protest. The bookshop aches with a pulse of tension that Aziraphale can feel shoot up his spine.

This human was a tough nut to crack. A shell made of stupidity, most likely. Most went running with a practiced look. Others, a bit more determined, were usually lost in a way that Aziraphale was drawn to, a fascinating puzzle he could help solve.

This man, however, had an eager energy, like he was waiting for Aziraphale to lash out, baiting him with blatant disrespect and a charming smile.

"That's nice, dear," he intones, "I have to ask you to leave. Now."

The Man simply tuts playfully, rolling his eyes with a 'can you believe this guy?' Kind of grin.

"I figured it all out. Been reading your collection here," The Man roughly knocks a knuckle onto a book, it tumbles out the other side and thumps on the floor, pages spread akimbo.

"Which, I have to say, is quite impressive."

Aziraphale stares at the fallen book, finds the anger morph into something white-hot, creeping into the crevices of his body like a steam dissipating through a confined room. The bookshop echoes the sentiment back to him, pulsating with a furious energy that stirs open curtains to slam shut, urges candles to spark to life.

If The Man notices the changes in light, in ambience, he doesn't show it.

"It is," Aziraphale says tightly, barely halting the fury from jumping from his tongue with a well-time swallow of the flames building up.

And maybe this man is a pyromaniac, because he seems to be waiting for the fire, encourages the burn, kindles it with an unbothered demeanor and blissful smile. Aziraphale has to wonder what this man even wants from him.

"If you leave now, I can send you home with shortbread." Aziraphale offers a sickly sweet smile, constructed with all the false niceties and sugary politeness available. This, combined with his patented 'Not Quite Human But Human Enough To Know Where Your Most Important Arteries Are,' stare tend to have those people he just needs gone scrambling for the hills. And, on occasion, to therapy.

The Man actually laughs at this, a short burst that appears entirely genuine.

"Oh, that's sweet," He says patronisingly, as if _he_ was the one that was thousands of years old, crafted from Her hand with a sword and a purpose, with the desire and wisdom to guide and protect humanity through the trails and tribulations of existence.

Straightening, The Man stretches, eyes bright with mirth. He reaches behind him, grasps something that was leaning against the bookshelf as well.

He pulls the object around, handle of a baseball bat contently in grip.

Aziraphale's blood seems to freeze in place, heart skipping before continuing at twice the pace.

"I want something else from you, though, sir."

He strokes a single finger down the line of the bat, then brings it up to his face, as if inspecting it for dust. Seemingly satisfied with the lack of dirt, he slings it up to loosely rest over his shoulders.

"Not any supernatural books this time. Although, they've been a big help. Would gladly come back for them."

That struck Aziraphale, stilling him in his place. The cogs finally spin to life.

He hadn't recognised The Man until then, hadn't thought the face was familiar, or the voice, or the look. It took a moment of studying, sweeping a gaze from head to toe, actually looking at the man before recognition even began to trickle into his mind.

His mouth involuntarily drops open as The Man stalks a step closer, bat swinging with his shoulders.

It was the man who had come to the shop yesterday! Searching after 'supernatural' books or something of the sort. Aziraphale hadn't been at his best, and had simply miracled him to leave. Something had obviously gone wrong, if he was back now with dubious intent.

There was something dangerously forgettable about this man, the dark arch of his eyebrows perfectly ruffled above brown eyes. Thin lips that twist as he speaks, flashing averagely coloured teeth, not too white, not too yellow.

Just...generally physically average in every conceivable way. That was a blessing in disguise. A person could blend in, hide in plain view, become the embodiment of out of sight out of mind. Evidently, he had used it to his advantage. There was something that told Aziraphale this was a desired result, perfectly cultivated after years of studying, observing, adapting. It was in the confidence of that stare, unwavering, the relaxation in that posture, it spoke volumes. Everything was purposeful.

And whatever his purpose was had something to do with Aziraphale.

"They taught me everything I need to know about you, your books," The Man hums. Another step forward.

Aziraphale stays rooted to the spot, teeth beginning to grit together. He refuses to take a step back for this man, this thoughtless book-pusher!

The Man eyes him up and down, a smug tilt to his insufferable smile.

"Isn't that right, _angel_?"

Time stops, the chatter outside the bookshop fades out into white noise his ears filters out. It's just Aziraphale and this man.

What was anger, so electric and hot, reverts back into fear so quickly it leaves him breathless. It lunges on him, steals the air from his lungs ruthlessly.

And that reaction in itself shocks him. Humans are clever, of course. Simultaneously their greatest strength and their greatest weakness. People have suspected things before, had felt things subconsciously, knew things they shouldn't like he'd laid his soul bare for their inspections.

But no one in history had ever been so open, so arrogant with it.

And over what? Some light reading while he was out for lunch?

It was insane to be so scared of a cock-sure human with a penchant for ignoring common sense. But Aziraphale was still frightened, dizzy with the heavy rush of blood speeding to his thundering heart.

The bookshop was enveloped with tension so thick it could have been cut with a blunt bread knife. And this man slices through it with ease, rocking the bat on his shoulders as he stalks closer.

The smile is still fixed on his face, eyes gleaming.

"Don't be ludicrous," Aziraphale manages to spit out. The fear takes him by the throat, digs fingers in hard, forces his voice to quiver when it escapes the hold and tumbles from his lips.

"You sound absurd."

Another step closer. A pause. The Man cocks his head, swipes his tongue over his stretched bottom lip with a chuckle.

"To anyone else, maybe, but not to you Mr. Fell," he says. His eyes narrow, dart around the points of Aziraphale's frame much like a predator sizing up his prey, picking at the weak spots.

Aziraphale's racing heart begs him to flee, pounding against his ribcage with a desperation to escape. It makes him sick, the resulting shockwaves like bile up his throat.

Swallowing it down doesn't help, simply feels like choking on heat. Breathing doesn't work either, his lungs too small, his desperation too big.

"I simply have no idea what you're talking about." Aziraphale raises a hand, hope the man doesn't notice how much it trembles as he points in the direction of the shop's door.

"You need to leave, immediately."

The Man rolls his eyes again, swings the bat down to rest on the floor like a cane. It lands with a thunk and Aziraphale can't stop himself from flinching.

"No use hiding it, I know what you are. I know what I'm here for. I'm not leaving until I get it." The Man's voice is deep, calm, like an ocean with a great beast lurking beneath the stillness.

"Young man," Aziraphale steadies himself, "I will involve the authorities!"

The Man's eyes flicker over to the door for just a moment before they're back to Aziraphale. He huffs, takes another step. Aziraphale's leg quivers with the urge to step back.

"Oh, no need for them is there? Got all those angel powers and what not," He laughs, continues creeping forwards.

Aziraphale's stomach tumbles over itself to get away, he stumbles back with it. The hands on his neck clench harder, squeezing his throat and he feels like he's choking, like he can't breath, like he'll never have enough air ever again-

Books start jumping from shelves, landing with alarming crashes as they're flung from their places to the floor.

The Man barely reacts, simply watches the occurrence with a fascinated eye.

"I mean, I had an inkling but, Lord, to be proved right." The laugh he lets loose is joyous, carefree and Aziraphale reels with it, that this man can be so unkind, so happy, facing an ethereal being with nothing but a bat and a smile.

"You are insane!" His voice wobbles in a way Aziraphale can't forgive.

"Leave now!" He cries, it rings in his ears, followed by the pulsing rush of blood.

The Man's brow furrows, his face turning dark with determination.

"Not unless you're coming with me."

The next stride is full of purpose, brings them so much closer than before. Aziraphale can see a flash of himself reflected in the man's eyes, a warped view of the fear plaguing his face, infecting his smile lines.

More books tumble from the shelves, fly onto the floor, spilling open as they crash.

The weakness there haunts them, floats behind his eyes. He doesn't look like an ethereal being, a soldier crafted with purpose. Aziraphale doesn't blend in with his angel brethren, has been standing out since the beginning of himself, and here he can see it spelled out so plain to him.

He looks human. And here, quivering in front of this stranger, he hates it.

He wishes he could face him coldly, wishes his heart would stop beating so despairingly, wishes he could just breathe-

The Man stops his approach, now close enough to touch. His eyes linger over Aziraphale's trembling chest, the bob of his dry throat, the involuntary twitch of his fingers.

He admires Aziraphale like Aziraphale admired his rose just earlier that morning. Maybe Aziraphale was _his_ new beginning.

Aziraphale's vision starts to blur, fuzzy like television static, warped by tears. Humiliation sits heavy on his shoulders, another addition to the turmoil of emotions wreaking havoc through his body.

He needs to get away. Now.

If he can just follow through on his threat- involve the authorities- or even call Crowley!

With harried steps he moves away from The Man, rushing over to his phone.

A blur passes by him, The Man racing around him with bat outstretched in front of him.

Before Aziraphale can even blink, The Man raises his bat high, bringing it down in a clean arc on the telephone. With a sickening crunch the old phone caves in, bits of plastic flying away from the impact.

Aziraphale can only stand there as a gasp is wrenched from him, watching frozen as the bat is pulled away, revealing a complicated series of wires exposed by a crater.

A tear slips down his cheek, startling him into action. Aziraphale brushes it away before it can reach his lips, desperately blinking away others who spring to replace it.

"Don't want to ruin the fun too early," The Man explains nonchalantly, as if he hadn't just destroyed property like it was his God-given job.

It feels like there's a knot building in Aziraphale's throat, pushing outwards while those fingers dig in, blocking anything but an ache from passing through. Another tear escapes despite his efforts, burying itself in the dip of his nose.

The Man watches his reaction with a keen eye. When Aziraphale only continues to stand there, stunned, he scoffs, shifting his weight to lean on the bat. It crunches a telephone piece into the wood floor below.

"Come on, then. If you want to stop me, stop me," He says tauntingly, "Use your little powers."

Aziraphale can only stare at the broken telephone, the wires, the debris scattered about. Everything rushes upwards like a tidal wave, the fear, the anger, the shame, it rises and rises until it crashes through his whole system.

And it immobilises him, the overwhelming feelings that flood every nerve ending, every muscle and thought.

The Man sneers at his lack of reaction, baring his teeth mockingly.

"Fine," He mutters under his breath. He brings the bat up, tests the weight in his hands for a moment.

He brings it around with a mighty swing, it whacks into a nearby bookshelf. The shelving wobbles under the impact and books tumble to the ground in shock.

The bookshop roars- or maybe it's just the rush of blood in Aziraphale's ears.

A wretched, mangled sound squeezes out of his throat, a phlegmy protest, a cry of anguish, a desperate plead.

The man laughs in response, head thrown back in glee as he lines up another hit.

More books are helplessly thrown from the shelves at the impact. One book with a weakened spine finds its front cover snapping off as it reaches the floor, index page glaring confusedly up at the ceiling.

The frantic patter of Aziraphale's heart reaches dizzying speeds, slamming with each hurried beat. Another strangled sob is pulled from him, barely heard over the man's cheerful laughter.

He needs everything to stop now, everything needs to stop.

He tries a miracle, concentrates beyond the shaking legs and burning chest onto stopping everything.

It doesn't work.

The Man beats a book directly now, slamming it from a shelf and punishing its fall. His laugh morphs into something maniacal, ringing through the shop.

Aziraphale focuses harder, trembling as he imagines everything turning back to normal, getting rid of The Man, fixing damages.

It still doesn't work. He can feel the intention build, build until it urges to burst from his body. It fizzles out when it does, sparking uselessly in his surroundings.

It has to work. It has to. Aziraphale raises a hand, clicks.

It doesn't work. Nothing changes.

He clicks again. Again. Again. Again. _And again. Again_.

Nothing's happening! The stress rises and Aziraphale can only keep snapping, desperately hoping for it to work. The sweat gathers between his finger and thumb, rendering it a frantic slide rather than a click.

The Man pauses, for a bit. He watches with a crooked smile, breathless.

"Oh. Little angel can't even protect his books from the big, bad human," He pouts, fluttering his eyes.

Aziraphale grits his teeth, his jaw clenching like it intends to fuse with the other.

Why isn't it working?!

More tears flow, sticking messily to his skin as they journey their descent down his face.

What kind of angel is he if he can't rely on his powers?

Can only stand there pathetically, quivering like a helpless fool.

One not worthy of being an angel. Let alone an Angel.

If only Crowley _was_ here.

The Man continues his assault, observing him from the corner of his eye.

Miracles or not, Aziraphale needs to put a stop to this.

The swell of anger, of anxiety, races through his body, compels his limbs to move.

Forcing knees to hold him steady, he rushes forward, face stained with tears and nose blocked with snot. The Man freezes as he nears, grinning eagerly.

Aziraphale tackles The Man, fists grabbing him by the elbows and forcing him to the wall. Hidden strength lays beneath his old-fashioned clothing, his soft demeanor and softer body, it lunges out through his muscles, attacks The Man.

They tumble backwards, bumping the desk. The broken phone jumps. The bat clatters to the ground.

The vase holding the rose slips, hits the floor, shatters with a splintering sound.

The rose stares up at their struggling forms from the floor, a single petal laying detached from the head.

Shoes crunching on cracked porcelain, the pair battle against the wall, Aziraphale pinning The Man as his hands slide up his arms, stilling him at the wrists.

The Man seems more content with being pushed around, eyeing him with fascination, even as a grimace consisting of bared teeth overtakes his mouth.

"You need to stop," Aziraphale snarls, spittle flying from his lips. It disgusts him, losing control so openly in front of this stranger, and he quickly reigns in any other words he has to say.

In his moment of distraction The Man takes the opportunity, arching away from the wall. Aziraphale frantically leans his weight in to halt his movement.

"Such strength," The Man notes absently, eyes wandering along Aziraphale's figure. The eyes burn.

"You could probably demolish the car I came here in," The Man continues with a hum.

Aziraphale freezes with a start, his eyes darting up to where he's pinning The Man. His hands encircle The Man's wrists tightly, the skin peeking through the grasp of his fingers is turning a stark white from the pressure

Aziraphale falters, his grip loosening.

He looks back up into The Man's face. He's so young. Just a baby, really, compared to Aziraphale.

The Man, however violent, misguided and deluded he is, is utterly defenseless against Aziraphale's inhuman strength.

And that leaves Aziraphale feeling just as misguided.

He was tasked with protecting them, guiding them, guarding them, even if it's against their own stupidity. Aziraphale doesn't want to hurt this human, this man. Even after all he's done. Guilt turns his stomach heavy, a sickening weight that leaves his everything feeling like lead. He quickly lets go of The Man's wrists, instead grappling a hand into his coat to hold him in place.

The Man raises an eyebrow but lifts his arm, watches as the blood rushes back under his skin. He flexes the arm, tendons bunching under the surface of his flesh. His hand curls into a fist.

Before Aziraphale can react The Man swings his fist upwards, connecting it with Aziraphale's jaw.

A shock of pain ripples from the site, like lightning as it sparks up his face and lands behind his eyes. Teeth clacking together and a cry of surprise leaving his mouth, Aziraphale stumbles away from The Man.

"Strong and stupid," The Man shakes out his fist, "Quite the combination."

The burst of pain resides into a pulsating ache, throbbing under Aziraphale's teeth.

"How rude," Aziraphale spits out, wincing as his jaw cries in protest at the movement. He raises a hand to it, feels the tender flesh under tentative fingers.

"And you are lucky you're so interesting," The Man ponders, raising his bat.

"Otherwise things might have ended a little bit differently."

He brings it down, striking it on Aziraphale's shoulder.

Aziraphale staggers under the blow, finds a shout leaving his lips.

The Man grins, continues his attack.

Another blow lands on his arm, his side, his knee.

Fireworks of pain radiate out from the hits, the anguished cries of capillaries bursting and bruises forming.

Aziraphale raises his hand to block the attacks, trying desperately to catch the bat on its way down. The Man simply doubles the strength behind his hits, brings it down with serious intent.

A blow lands on Aziraphale's knee and it caves under him, sending him buckling to the floor.

There's barely room to think as the strikes continue to rain down, welting his skin. Fire races along his nerves, burns in each angered muscle with a raging intensity.

He tries to use a miracle, summons the strength he holds within. Pushing it out towards The Man, he finds it redirects itself elsewhere.

Books tumble from shelves, papers fly upwards as if caught in an inaudible wind, candles roar to life.

The power slips between his fingers like handfuls of sand, right down into the hourglass where it counts down the seconds to his demise.

A blow lands on his ribs and his head jerks back in a soundless scream. Aziraphale lurches away from The Man, lands on his elbows and hands as he curls in over his injured side. A shock lances up his elbows at the impact, tingles in his fingers as they fold over his ribs.

"Is that all you can do?" The Man stalks over to him, bat poised and ready as he looms over Aziraphale. The shadow he casts bleeds over the angel, lying prone and panting on the floor.

"Force a few books to fall?" The Man hisses. Aziraphale's can barely string the words together, feels like his mind is shaking nearly as much as his body.

The Man continues his beating, alternating the points he chooses on Aziraphale's form.

Aziraphale can only writhe on the floor, twisting his body away from the blows.

Beyond the thick fog of panic thoughts trickle in, the warning before the dam bursts.

_What kind of soldier are you?_

_What kind of angel?_

To just take this from This Man. And, God, Aziraphale doesn't even know his name. Barely even knows what he wants.

The shame is quick to dig its claws in, tearing up the urge that begs him to fight back, to dismantle this human limb from limb, to take justice-revenge-even. He curls in tighter on himself, guards the softer curve of his stomach and the innards it protects.

If there's one thing he should be good at, it's guarding.

Guarding The Gate, himself from things he shouldn't feel. He just needs to Guard a little while longer.

"Come on," The Man groans, finding a particular fascination with Aziraphale's shin, the way his leg bounces away from the bat.

"Show me something more interesting!"

It's dark in the crook of his elbow, Aziraphale finds, his hot, quick breaths filling the space and heating his skin. There's not enough oxygen to intake, just stifling air and his muffled cries, teeth catching against his sleeve with each jostling hit.

Aziraphale slams his eyes shut tight, stifles a whimper back into the depths of his body. He's taking up too much space, the volume of his body feels like it's spilling into every crevice of the bookshop, his quivering form visible for all to see. He can't be small enough, can't suck in enough air, can't escape. Anxiety bubbles under the surface of his skin, stretches it until it feels like a rubber imitation of flesh, a prison he's trapped within. He yearns to burst free, to shed himself of his crawling skin and raised hairs.

Everything burns, the ball in his throat, the knot of his stomach, the blooming bruises growing on his skin. His heart beats so fast, pounds furiously in his chest, sends blood rushing in all directions.

A hit lands on his shoulder, splits the skin open. Aziraphale feels like time is in slow motion, he's going so fast he can feel as the flesh separates away, imagine the blood rising to greet his shirt.

On the edge of his consciousness he feels something building, contorting under the skin of his back, the muscles there thrash and whine as they prepare for the change.

Aziraphale is helpless to stop it.

His wings explode forth from another plane, bursting outwards.

The Man gasps in shock, in awe. He reaches forwards for the wings, relenting on the bat.

"Beautiful," He murmurs, creeping closer as Aziraphale pulls them in to surround his body.

The Man stretches out a greedy hand, takes the edge of one wing into his palm.

The wing, a representation of light and energy, a bare imitation of something physical, ripples under his touch.

"Stop," Aziraphale sobs, removing his head from the cradle of his arms.

As The Man's hand passes through the wing he pauses, before trying again. The wing, coaxed under the touch, begins to solidify. Feathers spring to existence, grow texture, weight, bond themselves to manifesting flesh and bone.

Aziraphale can see how delighted The Man's face is, the joyous tilt to his open smile, the shine in his eyes.

He grips the wing tightly, pulls it closer to him, feathers crumpling under his ministrations.

Aziraphale struggles, tries to yank the wing away.

The Man doubles his efforts of examination, grabbing fistfuls of the wings in order to hold it steady.

"Now this is what I'm talking about!" The Man sighs, running fingers through feathers, down the length of bone outlining the wing.

The touch is warm and clammy against Aziraphale's skin, spearing through rows of feathers, goosebumps following the trails.

"This will go perfectly," The Man admires the wing, "Boss will think it's perfect."

The touch leaves every nerve alight, crying out in alarm as those fingers brush by them, dragging along skin. The touch is sensitive and Aziraphale feels like every sense is magnified, heightened, each thought focused in on the hands touching him.

It's like his skin is thinning with each stroke, fingers bumping over veins, wearing out the skin between them and tendons and muscles and bones and whatever else of Aziraphale that exists beneath.

The rush of panic is so consistent, barely flowing and ebbing, just a still ocean unaffected by the moon's pull. He doesn't even register what The Man is saying, because he's muttering now, praises and utterances of awe, vague whispers of plans and decorations and fame. It floods one ear and crashes out the other, just as intense of a wave.

He thinks it would be less overwhelming if he just knew why- why The Man was doing this, why he was reacting this way, why every thing burned and ached- if he had answers maybe he could quell the fear, find a way to fight back.

The warmth of The Man's skin is too much, the texture of his fingers, the pressure on his wing.

All Aziraphale can hear is the urge to get away, a scream louder than the blood rushing in his ears, for it never leaves his lips. Get away, get away, get away, Get Away, Get Away, _Get Away_ -

Wrenching away from The Man with a sudden heaving breath, Aziraphale scrambles back before he can even think it through.

A sharp tinge makes itself known from his wing, a startling burst against the dull aches and pains that throb through the rest of his body. The Man blinks in surprise, a single white feather stuck between the tight junction of his fingers.

"No need for that, really." The Man stands from his crouch, bringing the feather up to his face. He shifts it by rolling his fingers together, watches as shadows play off the barbs, dim candle-light shining on the shaft when twisted to a certain angle.

Here, poised with one of Aziraphale's own feathers between his fingers, it looks like a weapon raised against him, a token of his identity, a recognition of his failures.

"Wish all the feathers I'd worked with looked like this," The Man says, "Such a strength to the shaft, a neatness to the barbs. Limited down."

He tucks the feather into a coat pocket. Only the very tip is visible, peering over the edge at Aziraphale.

"Elegant. Very angelic, really."

Aziraphale sits there, shaking, wishing he was as strong as his own feathers. Not so he could receive compliments from this man, but so he could remain undamaged in the face of danger, just as whole and innocent as he's always been.

"Now, where were we?" The Man sighs, bends to scrape his bat off of the floor. It drags against the wood, a horrible bumpy sound.

It hurts. Everything hurts.

"Right. Well, this is certainly enough for my plans," The Man begins advancing again, stalking closer to Aziraphale's hunched form.

"I just need you to come with me and we'll be all done here."

Aziraphale watches The Man's shoes come near, stopping before him. A quick glance upwards shows their owner holding the bat threateningly, bouncing it playfully in his hand.

He looks back down, to the shoes, the curl of his own trembling hands where they're holding his weight.

He knows whatever happens next, he cannot go with this man. He needs to figure something out fast.

If only his powers were working.

Sucking in a swift breath, Aziraphale exhales with an attempt to push out a miracle. The power ripples out from his form, quickly proving uncontrollable as it springs away in all directions.

Somewhere in the bookshop Aziraphale's world globe starts spinning, picking up speed as it tumbles even in directions it's axis was not designed to go. His winged mug seems to have gained control over its wings, as it flies from one shelf to another, settling down with a clunk.

"Come on, now." The Man tuts, losers the bat slowly. Aziraphale flinches, receives a 'shhhh,' from The Man as he slowly brushes it over Aziraphale's shoulder. It runs along up to his neck, pressing his earlobe upwards before traversing along his jaw, reaching its destination at his chin.

Applying pressure, The Man forces Aziraphale to look up at him. He refuses to meet The Man's eyes.

Shame, stress, anger, it all builds and mixes together, an indistinguishable blend that manifests itself as a knot in his throat, a clench in his stomach. It fuels his veins, the tears that have stained his cheeks. He can't pick anything apart anymore, he just knows it exists, a wave of everything negative, it drags him under, drowns him to the point of numbness.

"Come with me. Trust me, you'll be treated nicely, lovely thing like you." The Man seems to finds fascination in the way the bat squishes into his chin, forces the tendons in his neck to flex as he tries to breathe.

"A bit of violence is customary, really. Got to know what I'm dealing with don't I?"

"But, I'm all done now. No more, I promise. Just come with me."

Shooting a look to his closed door, Aziraphale ducks his head as the bat is pulled away from his face.

His wings twitch, a down feather floating down in front of him. Fancy him, a former soldier of heaven, an angel of his own side, beaten down and helpless in front of this man.

Tears leak from his eyes, obscuring his vision into a haze of weight.

He wishes Crowley was here.

He might have just as many qualms about harming humans, but he'd have his powers, strength, something Aziraphale doesn't have.

"Let's go, now."

But for Crowley to stick around with him for so long, to love him so, that must mean he has worth, has value. Has some sort of strength, something Crowley can see in him, even if he can't find it in himself.

He has to try, to embody whatever it is Crowley sees in him. Some hidden reserve of determination, an endless tolerance for humanity, an unbreakable strength tucked away behind all the parts of him that don't feel so strong.

"We need to leave."

Stealing a quivering breath from the air, he lets it inflate his lungs, his hopes, his energy. He thinks of Crowley, endlessly caring, forever inspiring Aziraphale to be the best he can be.

The things he's feeling build tight, a ball that sits restlessly in his chest. Aziraphale lets it grow, expand, fill every crevice of his corporation and spill out into his true form.

Everything is too much, stretching him to his limits, pooling into every muscle until he resembles a coil pulled taut. A bomb about to go off.

"Aw, don't be like that. We've already established I'm not afraid to throw a hit."

And he lets it explode.

Power rushes out, pouring from his form, crashing against everything in its path.

Books collect themselves from the floor, and as if sucked into a vivacious gust of wind, begin to rise. They form a circle, spinning round and round as they soar higher. A tornado of books, circling beyond the first floor of his shop and continuing upwards.

The Man has to duck to avoid a book swinging by his head. when he returns to full height his eyebrows are creased, eyes alight with something other than eagerness.

Other objects begin to join the fray, spare mugs and loose paper and the remains of the telephone.

"That's quite impressive." The Man steps back, face furrowed into a frown, the blurred reflections of books flashing in his eyes. The bat hangs uncertainly by his side, shaking in a tight-fisted grip.

Aziraphale lets out a heavy breath, feels as more power trickles out with it. It seeps from his pores, rises from his skin like heat, beads in the sweat on his brow, the tears in his eyes.

It's desperate to escape, hungry for the world outside his humanely corporation. Craving destruction, ravenous for something to sink its fangs into it settles for whatever it can find. It devours spaces for books, sending them flying upwards, it pounces under his armchair, raising it to the sky.

Pounding against windows, it howls like a whistling wind, eager to spread into the world outside. The Man flinches at the rattling of window panes, the flapping of curtains about to tear down. His hair is waving in a constructed wind, joining the flow of his coat.

The bookshop is alive with the energy, thriving on the chaos and The Man's shaky confidence.

"This is a lovely, display. Really," The Man addresses Aziraphale, jaw clenched tight.

"But it isn't going to stop you from leaving. I will take you with me."

And Aziraphale attempts to reign it in, he does, but the power slides right through his grip like slippery eels, conducting electricity in the bookshop. It continues expelling itself, and Aziraphale can taste it on his tongue, feels it thick in the air with every breath.

The wind picks up, the circling books gaining speed as they spin up, reaching the bookshop's roof.

The Man watches with rapt attention, mouth open in surprise. He backs up, dodges a novel that zooms past, hard cover grazing his cheek. His face wrestles between awe and fright, twisting his features sourly.

Aziraphale draws his wings in closer to his body, relieved as The Man backs away.

Aziraphale's own feather jumps right out of The Man's pocket, catching a gush of air as it spirals upwards, a speck of white in a swirling storm of muted colours.

The Man lunges towards it, desperately grasping it his hand. His fingers slam down on it before it can get too far, bending the shaft with the force of his grip. Aziraphale watches the feather crumple in his fist, a part of him wrangled by this beast of a human.

Another breath leaves him in a shaky exhale, a defeated quivering breath. It's all he can do now. Breathe, scramble to piece together a coherent thought, ignore the thundering of his heart and the tremble of his body.

It's a small breath.

It's all the rest of his power needs to jump from his corporation. He doesn't have the energy to contain it anymore.

It pours out like a tsunami, an invisible wave starving to release pent up energy, famished for revenge.

It crashes into everything, the flying books sent raining down like shooting stars, his armchair skidding across the floor with a screech, the broken telephone tumbling back down to earth.

It hits The Man too, sinks into him with fangs and claws, pushes him victoriously. He goes stumbling, falling back into a bookshelf with a ringing cry.

All falls silent for a moment, a blanket of peace that tries to keep it's contents wrapped underneath.

Aziraphale stills his quaking form, a wretched gasp ripping free from him, disturbing the blanket as he watches The Man sit up. Blood drips from his nose, a sticky red stream running down his philtrum and pooling on his bottom lip. A similar dark spot is forming on his temple, crimson beading into a spherical globe, rife with tension.

The Man raises a shaking fist, wipes the blood from his lip. It smears on his cheek, an ugly streak of darkening red.

Aziraphale watches him rise, fold himself onto knees that dimple under the weight. He's a figure of motion, an animated cartoon against a backdrop of silence and stillness. And like the vengeful villain, he shoulders the burden of defeat, learns its weight before standing again.

The urge to apologise, to offer help, wells up in Aziraphale's chest, an urge he barely contains. An aborted apology spews from his lips in an incomprehensible noise.

The Man's head snaps up at the sound, his eyes zeroing in on Aziraphale from across the floor. The blood forming on his forehead is disturbed by the movement, bursting from its rounded shape and sending a trail down from the cut.

For a moment they stare at each other, suspended in time as two injured souls that have reached an equilibrium. A balance neither were eager to break, just for the moment.

A loud knocking washes away the tension, a rapping of knuckles on wood.

"I heard a crash," comes a voice from outside, pushing through the door and filling the still space of the bookshop. "Alright in there, Mr. Fell?"

Other noises filter in from outside, creeping under the door. More concerned mumblings, the general chatter of the Soho streets.

The Man eyes the door hesitantly, rocking himself from knees to feet as he pushes himself to stand.

Aziraphale isn't sure if he himself recognises the voice of the concerned passerby, likely be a repeat 'customer.' If their presence can encourage The Man's departure it doesn't matter who it is.

Aziraphale collects himself, gathers his voice from where it had hidden itself somewhere in the back of his throat.

"Only dropped a few tomes while re-shelving, dear," He calls out, voice a shock in the otherwise tensely quiet shop.

"I'll be opening the shop in a few!"

The Man raises an eyebrow, eyes wary and posture rigid. He shifts restlessly for a few seconds, before huffing.

Aziraphale can only sit there, feeling detached and lifeless as The Man begins to scour around the bookshop. He gathers up his bag, his bat from the floor, stuffs the broken angel feather back into the depths of his pocket.

The Man gives him a glare, eyes scrutinising over every inch of his body. Aziraphale thinks he should feel angry, embarrassed, fearful. Something. Instead it's like watching a theatre performance from the audience, gazing upon the actors that wear his face as masks. His heart pounds, but it's a distant sensation, something pulsing from beyond the haze of a near-forgotten dream.

The Man coughs, purposefully spits, ejecting blood-ridden saliva from his mouth. The spit bubbles where it hit the floor, mixed with crimson in a swirling galaxy of viscous foam. Aziraphale can't find it in himself to care even as the spit visibly dampens the floor, marking the wood.

"Well." The Man interrupts his drifting mind. "Goodbye for now."

Giving Aziraphale a last, lingering look, The Man strides to the door. He attempts to wipe away the blood caking his eyebrow, presses the baseball bat into his side, under his coat.

"We'll see each other again, soon. I'm not letting you go."

With his casual words, and a quick opening of the door, The Man is out of the shop and out of Aziraphale's sight.

The open door shows a flash of the outside world, of life continuing on as it always has, before it creaks shut. The lock activates after it, and with it the people milling about outside return to their day with no recollection of ever being worried, wanting a book or watching a bloodied man race off with a baseball bat in tow.

Silence.

Thick, heavy, suffocating silence. Delicate silence. It breaks with every breath he breathes, ruptures when his inhales whistle past his teeth.

There isn't a thought he could think that would make things clear to him, so he lets everything drift, stays ensconced in the haze of blankness.

He is the beating of his heart, the expansion of his lungs, the exhaustion plaguing his weary eyes. He lets himself exist like that, just a pile of bones and flesh and cells and organs, somehow so complex but also so simple. He's nothing more.

Just human.

Just breakable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, you made it! Congrats! 
> 
> I'm not really sure if that was something people want to read, but I'm proud of it regardless. I was sick of putting so much passion and time into a project that eventually I would lose the courage to post. This is a big step for me, and it'll cause me some stress, but I'm so glad I've made this step into putting my writing into the world again :3  
> Hope you enjoyed it : )
> 
> (Oh, and no offence to any taxidermists out there, I think it's an incredible art when done humanely!)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> I wish you all the best, see you next chapter X


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